Fit to Wear Red
by Anncatz
Summary: What is a Shinigami, really? Madam Red learns the hard way that these divine beings are born of less-than-optimal circumstances, waking to find that she is tied to neither Earth nor Heaven, but to the in-between existence of a Shinigami.
1. Chapter 1

_**Formal Author's Note**_

_Welcome to Fit to Wear Red: a piece of Kuroshitsuji fanfiction written by Anncatz, with creative contributions and revisions by Contramundi01. Before you begin reading, there are several things that must be addressed and clarified, so that you may have a clear and pleasant experience with the fic._

_If you are here, then that may mean that you were drawn to this work by its curious summary. Indeed, it seems very strange—perhaps verging on an Alternate Universe (AU) tint—to read and write about the possibility of Madam Red becoming a Shinigami, but that is the very joy of fanfiction. Neither the Kuroshitsuji manga nor anime have yet revealed the origins of Shinigami, so it is only natural for fans to posit different theories about their existence. It is possible that Yana Toboso will provide greater insight into the Shinigami in later volumes of her manga, but for now it remains as interesting, uncharted territory. Thus Fit to Wear Red explains an origin theory that allows for humans to return as Shinigami, and then explores the many possibilities that are presented by those circumstances._

_With this story, it is important to note that regular shifts in perspective and chronology occur, though all of these changes are clearly set apart and labeled accordingly. Through the course of the story, you will come across three different types of documents:_

_"Chapters." These documents are written from third-person perspective. They tend to include scenes across various times, and they mention the thoughts and activities of multiple characters._

_"Interludes." These documents find themselves tucked in between "Chapters." Their distinguishing feature is a switch to first-person perspective, focusing on a single character's viewpoint across a linear timeline. This achieves a particular mood and feeling unique to the character._

_"Cinematic Records." These documents are essentially "flashback" scenes, detailing events from a single character's past. They are primarily written in italics to show a differentiation from the current plotline. The term "flashback," however, is too commonplace; in order to add a characteristic Kuroshitsuji feel to the story, these scenes are instead referred to as "Cinematic Records." Like the concept from the manga / anime, the "Cinematic Records" are told from first-person perspective. The reader, however, must understand that, despite being called "Cinematic Records," these scenes do not imply that a film is literally being viewed by a third-party Shinigami._

_With all of these things said, you now know the most vital information concerning our story, so read on, enjoy, and review._

_~Anncatz_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji or its characters. They are the property of Yana Toboso._

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Every Monday, he reaped souls. Undistracted by anything around him, he worked ceaselessly and dutifully, even in the pouring rain.

Every Tuesday, he held a meeting of the management team, and, later, he called all of the rule-violators into his office and gave them a thorough scolding.

Every Wednesday, he summoned the members of the Shinigami Dispatch Society together to advise them on their latest assignments, and, in the afternoon…

Click. Click. Click.

Ah, today just _had_ to be Wednesday.

The sound of the heeled ankle boots clicking down the hallway was unmistakable. With a furrowed brow, William T. Spears glanced up at the clock. Sure enough, it was that time again: Grell Sutcliff's lunch break.

There was something about Wednesdays. For whatever reason, the flamboyant redhead had formed a habit of waltzing into William's office every Wednesday afternoon, and it was always the same:

With a bat of the eyelashes, a blush of the cheeks, and a wiggle of the hips, Grell Sutcliff would approach William's desk. "Oh, _Will,"_ he would greet with a far-too-chipper tone, "I heard some interesting things in the lounge just now." Then, with a shark-toothed grin, he would proceed to talk about the latest gossip going around the London Branch. William would ignore this chatter and focus on whatever document he was signing, until Grell would tap his shoulder and inquire, "Hey, Will, you need a break too. Why don't we have lunch _together?"_

At that point, William would look away from his document and command, "Out of my office, Sutcliff."

But the redhead would simply grin back at him in defiance.

"Now."

The grin would only grow toothier, so William would stand up and look at Grell with a stern, emotionless scowl. The Shinigami's bold, green eyes would lock for just a moment, and Grell would lean forward with a lusty whisper, "I won't give up, you know."

A monotone reply: "I know."

With that, William would clasp his hands forcefully about Grell's shoulders and then kick him—literally—out of the office.

It always happened that way. The scene was so commonplace that William practically had it written down in his daily schedule. So, since today was Wednesday, he was prepared for the inevitable. Thus the sound of Grell's clicking heels graced William's ears, but… something seemed different today…

Countless weeks' worth of a routine made William T. Spears certain that those heels were clicking at a faster pace than usual. He could only assume that today's gossip had been particularly exhilarating and scandalous.

But, no, it was more than that: Grell Sutcliff burst into the office in a frenzy, panting from having hurried, and carrying an insane look in his viridian eyes. He rushed up to William's desk and pounded his fists onto it, shouting, _"_Is it _true, _Will?_"_

The supervisor inquisitively raised an eyebrow.

"Is _she_ seriously going to be working _here_?" Grell went on, eyes growing ever wilder.

"You'll have to be more specific, Grell Sutcliff," William calmly instructed. "London is bringing in several new employees of various division and rank—"

"_Madam Red,"_ Grell panted. "She's going to be working _here?"_

"Oh, so that's what this is about," William said, turning his attention back to the document before him.

"_Well?_" the redhead frantically prodded.

William answered without looking up from his paper: "Angelina Durless will, in fact, be transferring here."

Grell's voice cracked in hysteria: _"_So it's really _true?"_

"Yes," William repeated matter-of-factly.

Hearing this news, Grell stomped his foot on the ground and let out a frustrated cry of exasperation. "How can you do this to me, Will? You're so _cold."_

"Cold, no," William corrected, lifting his eyes. "Practical, yes."

The flamboyant Shinigami wriggled in protest. "What could possibly be practical about _that?"_

"I reviewed all of Miss Durless's files, which proved to be extremely impressive. The woman received an average grade of A at the Academy, including one triple-A score in Practical Technique—"

Grell stomped his foot again. "But _I'm _the only one at the London Branch who ever got that kind of score!"

"Not anymore, Sutcliff."

The angered Shinigami's face grew as vibrantly red as his hair. "I won't stand for this, Will. Do you know what she'll do to me when she sees me?"

William met Grell's wild face with a stoic expression. "Let us not forget that any animosity that she may feel toward you is of your own doing, Sutcliff."

"But Will—"

"As the supervisor for this division, I personally made the request for Miss Durless be sent to London," William interrupted. "The truth is that her knowledge and skills as a Shinigami will make her a valuable asset to us. Learn to deal with the situation, or fill out the paperwork to request a transfer to another branch."

The color abruptly drained from Grell's face, and the wildness left his eyes. "Oh, no, I can't transfer," he said in a suddenly soft voice.

William raised an eyebrow at the rapid change in demeanor.

"If I transferred… it would mean that I'd given up," the redhead explained with a soft smile.

The head of the management division shook his head and sighed. "Out, Sutcliff."

Grell gave a slight nod and led himself out of the office.

Perhaps the daily routines of the London Shinigami were about to change more than William T. Spears had anticipated.

* * *

><p>She felt the air rush by her as she swiftly jumped from rooftop to rooftop in a small, rural village, though it soon happened that there were no roofs to carry her farther; the houses became sparse and faded into one large, empty meadow. The woman's last leap landed her in the midst of lush, green grass surrounded by wildflowers, and she stopped there for a moment to take in the scenery.<p>

The countryside was virtually perfect. The sun hung in a sky of clear, baby blue, shining its warm, inviting rays onto the vibrant meadow below. She could smell the mixture of soft, floral scents, and she could even hear the cheery singing of birds. Vivid life seemed to surround her.

But death was her dealing now.

Callous eyes surveyed the world from behind the rims of elegant, scarlet spectacles. Angelina Durless's own breath of life had slipped from her lips some fifteen years ago—or perhaps it had been a few more years than that; she was already starting to lose count—and the rules of some cruel, higher order had forced her down a path that she would not have taken, if given a choice.

The harsh reality was that the miracles of birth, life, and death had always eluded her. Angelina never experienced any of those wonders in their proper senses; they were taken away from her by one brutal fate after another. Even her idea of an afterlife—whatever it would have been—had been stripped from her when she found out that her soul had been bound to some opaque existence in between worlds.

What was a Shinigami, really? Angelina had learned the hard way that these divine beings were born of less-than-optimal circumstances, and she was, of course, particularly bitter about the whole matter. Her life, her loved ones, her proper end—all were taken from her in one quick, forceful thrust.

A certain "deadly-efficient butler" deserved to pay for that. She had waited for years for a chance to act upon her desire for revenge, and, at last, fate was working in her favor.

Originally stationed in southern France, Angelina had frequently applied for permission to transfer back to her hometown of London, but all of those requests were denied on the grounds that she had not been absent from her home for a long enough time. Recently, though, her employment in France had been cut short at the request of William T. Spears, supervisor of the London District. Spears' Formal Request for Transfer had stated that the Shinigami Dispatch in London was short-handed in comparison with the number of deaths that were slated to occur in the coming months, and thus more Shinigami were needed to handle the situation.

How fortunate it was that Angelina naturally excelled at her career. Her bold conduct and fierce personality had allowed her to surpass her male cohorts and become one of the first female Shinigami to work in field duty, and her notable reputation made her a natural first choice to bolster London's lacking forces.

So, she was on her way to London…

Angelina's body tensed at the mere thought of it. Her identity as a Shinigami was directly rooted to her past in that city. If it had not been for Grell Sutcliff's rash actions, she would have lived, if even for just a little longer, and she would have experienced a proper death one day. Instead, London was the site of her wrongful death on that rainy night in 1888—the same night that she awoke with a burn in her eyes and vision so blurred that not even the closest objects were distinguishable…

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **__Here's an interesting little tidbit for the readers: the opening scene for this story was inspired by William T. Spears' character song, "Shinigami no Kitai Kanri," from the Kuroshitsuji II Character CD 04. If you haven't heard it before, you should give it a listen, and you should especially look up the translated lyrics. The song essentially describes the daily life of good ol' Mr. Spears, except it's got this cool, secret agent vibe to it, making it sound way more exciting than it really is. I love it._


	2. Cinematic Record: Angelina Durless

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji or its characters. They are the property of Yana Toboso.

**A/N: **Just a reminder: this document is the first "Cinematic Record" of the story, marking a shift in time and perspective. You should see three or four documents of this type throughout the course of the fic.

~Enjoy~

* * *

><p><strong>Shinigami File #476359083: Cinematic Record of Angelina Durless<strong>

_I could have killed anyone but him. I could feel my hand trembling as I stared into those deep, blue eyes—the eyes of my sister framed by his hair. This was Vincent and Rachel's son, and I couldn't kill him… I couldn't kill __**them.**__ I turned away, ashamed of what I had almost done._

_I hadn't killed him, no, but something was wrong… Grell was rushing toward us, his Death Scythe pointed forward to do what I could not. Time seemed to slow as he came ever closer, though as an educated woman, I knew that time was as it always was; what had changed was my perception._

_No, I was wrong; he wasn't going to hit Ciel. Was he aiming for Sebastian? Grell stared at me as he leapt through the air, and then, suddenly, he wasn't moving anymore. I gazed into the eyes of my blood-red butler... __**my **__blood. He was covered in it._

_He had been aiming for me._

_I looked down, simultaneously seeing his scythe and my life… He began to speak, but I couldn't hear him. All I could hear was the blood rushing through my ears._

_My vision was failing. I knew I didn't have much time left._

_Where was Ciel? I had to see him one last time. I had to see __**them.**_

_I found him. I stared up at him. He briefly looked back at me, but moved his gaze to Grell. The look on his face changed from surprise to hatred._

_Poor boy, now he had lost the only family he had left._

_Take care of him, Sebastian. You promised_ to protect him and stay by his side…_  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Dark.<em>

_That's how it was for a while—not a state of consciousness, yet somehow not lifeless either, much like a coma: no feeling, no thought, just… being._

_Eventually, though, my senses began to return to me. I opened my eyes, and everything was fuzzy. The entire room seemed to blur together into dull off-white, and I could only make out some vague shapes, which I assumed to be furniture. It appeared to be a rather bland environment, but it was nevertheless unfamiliar to me, especially in the context of my impaired vision._

_Was it a hospital, perhaps? Had I not died after all?_

_My thoughts were interrupted by a deep, baritone voice: "Ah, you're awake."_

_A hazy figure stepped into the room, and I squinted in an attempt to discern the features. My poor eyesight could only distinguish a masculine form, and nothing more._

"_Who are you," I spoke, "and where the hell am I?"_

_The man let out a friendly chuckle. "You're a feisty one," he laughed, "but don't worry. I'm here to help you. My name is Alfred Banner." A skin-colored blur reached toward me. "Here, this might help a bit." He pressed a pair of glasses onto my nose. _

_The world around me became briskly clear, and the change was so sudden that it sent a sharp sting through my head. "I don't understand," I muttered, closing my eyes in an attempt to ward off the pain._

"_That's normal," Alfred said with a pleasant tone. "It comes as a surprise to most everyone, but that's why I'm here."_

_I let out a groan, unable to speak properly with the agonizing throbs in my head._

"_Just wait a moment," he tenderly advised. "The pain will go away after a few minutes, and then I will explain everything."_

_We both remained quiet for a while. Sure enough, the pain faded slightly with each minute, until at last it was completely gone. At that time, I opened my eyes again. __The man before me was rather portly. He bore a large, bushy mustache and had grey hair, giving him a somewhat aged appearance, yet the only lines on his face were those around the eyes and mouth—the kind that come from frequent smiles during a long life._

"_Do you feel better?" he questioned._

"_Well, the pain is gone," I answered dryly, "but I'm still completely lost. If you could hurry up with your explanation, I'd feel much better."_

"_Before I begin, I must ask: Do you recall what happened to you before you woke?"_

"_Yes, I was…" My voice trailed off as I realized that I shouldn't divulge too much information to a stranger. "…injured. I let my guard down." Instinctively, my eyes dropped downward as I thought of how the Death Scythe had cut into me. I realized, though, that I currently didn't feel any pain in my chest. Such a serious injury would have left a horrible, burning gash… "How long was I out?"_

_A smile crossed Alfred's lips, the look in his eyes a knowing one. __"Oh, not very long—a few hours, maybe."_

_I couldn't believe my ears; it simply didn't make sense. If I'd only been unconscious for a few hours, then surely my chest would have throbbed with pain when I awoke, yet, for some reason, I couldn't feel any trace of injury on my body at all._

_I raised my eyes and narrowed them with suspicion. "Something's wrong here."_

_Alfred pulled up a chair and sat in front of me. With his hands folded in front of his face, he spoke solemnly, "You're luckier than most, Angelina. Grell Sutcliff recently developed a taste for toying with his victims and prolonging their deaths, but he was quick with you."_

_Wait, how did he know my name, and how did he know about Grell? I never mentioned those things._

"_It's also very fortunate that you already have some experience with Shinigami; that will make this easier for both of us."_

_And how did he know __**that?**__ Where was this conversation going?_

_He must have noticed that my body had become tense, because he assured me with a soft tone, "Everything's going to be okay. What I'm about to tell you will seem strange, but it's the truth. There's a lot of information for you to process, so please listen quietly and stay calm. Are you ready, Angelina?"_

_I nodded, but, truthfully, there was no way that I could have been prepared for what came next._

"_Today, the ninth of November, during the early hours of the morning, you received a fatal wound to your chest at the hand of the Shinigami Grell Sutcliff, as I'm sure you are aware. That injury…" He paused, looking me straight in the eye with a sorrowful expression. "I'm afraid to say that you did not survive it."_

_I stared back at him, perplexed by his knowledge of my personal affairs, and skeptical of his claim that I had died._

"_That's a difficult idea to grasp, I know," he went on, "but allow me to proceed. It will all start to make sense. Luckily, you learned several things about Shinigami through your interactions with Mr. Sutcliff. Your film indicates that you were aware of such concepts as the Death Scythe, Cinematic Record, and, most importantly, the Death List. That's very good—it means that you have less to absorb and can spend more time digesting what comes next. At this point, it should come as no surprise to you that I myself am a Shinigami and that I have viewed your Cinematic Record."_

_Ah, so he was a Shinigami too…_

"_While your knowledge of us far exceeds that of most humans, there is still much that you never learned. For instance, did you ever wonder where Shinigami come from? We serve as liaisons between Earth and the higher plane, and thus we are considered divine, yet, even as divine beings, we are not proper gods. We retain the ability to die. So, if we can die, then we must also somehow also be 'born,' but how?"_

_He seemed to be leading me to something, but I still couldn't figure out where he was going with all of these details._

"_Shinigami are, in truth, born from the souls of the departed—that is to say, most Shinigami once had human lives. Certain circumstances can prevent a soul from passing into the afterlife, and, instead, the soul manifests itself into a new body that is similar in appearance to the original. This new, physical form is that of a Shinigami, and the body takes on all of our typical characteristics. For example, you surely noticed that Mr. Sutcliff is capable of feats beyond that of any human. Shinigami are known for having supernatural speed, strength, and endurance, and we also possess a unique eyesight that allows for the viewing of Cinematic Records. Like humans, however, we also require food, drink, and sleep, and we are susceptible to certain illnesses. "_

_He paused and smiled at me, his eyes searching my face for a sign of understanding. Death… Souls… Shinigami… So, he was implying… No, it couldn't be._

"_You must be wondering why I would tell you such things. You're a clever woman, Angelina, so I'm sure that you've already figured it out: your death was an example of one of those circumstances. You, my dear lady, are now a Shinigami."_

_I silently looked back at him, waiting for him to reveal that this was actually some sort of ill-mannered joke set upon me by my nephew—he was such a relentless, clever boy, after all—but no such thing occurred. I realized that all of it was true._

"_You mean to say that my life was forcibly taken by that cross-dressing freak and now I can't move on?" I burst out in anger. "What kind of 'circumstance' could possibly keep me from crossing over? I deserve an end!"_

_Alfred's face bore an expression of regret. "Anglina… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I wish that you weren't in this situation. The reason that you're here is actually because you weren't supposed to die at all."_

_I wasn't supposed to die? Oh, that was rich. There were a lot of things that weren't supposed to happen but somehow happened anyway: Vincent and Rachel shouldn't have died, Ciel shouldn't have disappeared, I shouldn't have lost my husband and child…_

"_Killing you was one of many things that Mr. Sutcliff wasn't supposed to do—" —Alfred's voice momentarily held a tone of disdain— "—and I assure you that his supervisor is currently making sure that he pays for his transgressions." He stopped to clear his throat and regain his composure. "But, yes, premature death is one way that Shinigami can come into being, and there are a few other possibilities as well._

"_I will begin with your case: a human who was killed without being on our Death List. The list is normally very calculated and precise, known for correctly predicting the exact date, time, and manner of every person's death. For a human to die without being on the Death List generally means that a supernatural being was involved. In your particular case, Mr. Sutcliff took it upon himself to see that you died before your allotted time. Souls like yours find themselves conflicted, as they were not yet prepared to move into the afterlife, and they are thus bound to the fitting form of a being that is neither human nor god._

"_Secondly, some souls simply do not wish to move on after death. This is true of people who held special attachments to their human ways or people who harbored an intense fear of the afterlife. These souls instinctually come to us and enjoy having a second chance to exist in this world._

"_And, of course, certain souls are hand-picked to become Shinigami. Some of us spend our days viewing the records of others, looking for those who possess qualities that will ease the task of soul collection. These hand-picked employees make up a large percentage of our workforce."_

_Something had caught my interest. "You speak as if this is some sort of business," I noted. "Am I to believe that my new purpose is to work for the company that ultimately caused my death? Must you add such insult to injury?"_

"_It is a job, but, as I said, Mr. Sutcliff was acting independently, and we, as a whole, were not responsible for your death," Alfred clarified. "Regrettably, Shinigami also bear the human traits of independence and imperfection, as Mr. Sutcliff often likes to remind us."_

_I turned my head away and let out a frustrated grunt._

"_Yes, I know that the burden is great," Alfred said, lowering his voice. "You may find it difficult to make peace with your new life, but you will be compensated for all of your trouble. It's not the easiest job in the world, but many Shinigami feel that the benefits outweigh the work involved."_

"_And what sort of benefits are these?" I said, curiously turning back to him._

"_Like any other respectable business, we pay our employees for their work. The greatest perk, though, is the fact that you are able to maintain a physical form and stay on the Earth. Shinigami under our employment are given housing within their appointed district, and, at the end of the day, when the work is done, they are actually permitted to go out and socialize with humans, so as to have some semblance of a normal life."_

_I quieted for a moment, taking in the sheer amount of information that had just been given to me. It seemed that I had little choice in the matter—my life and my end had vanished and I was trapped now—and to think that it was all that vermin Grell's fault! My partner… How could he do this to me?_

"_What do you think, Angelina?"_

_As I dwelled on my circumstances, I suddenly realized that this was the perfect opportunity to have my vengeance against my dear butler. "Sounds good," I said with a cruel smirk. "What do I have to do to get started?"_

_Alfred flashed a kind smile. "Oh, you'll stay here for a couple of days so that you can adjust to your new physical attributes and ask me any questions that you may think of, and then you will assume the task of becoming a full-fledged Shinigami. A thorough education from the Shinigami Academy is needed, and your performance there will determine exactly which department you will work in after you graduate. "_

"_Might I see anyone from my past life?" I wondered, hopeful with thoughts of my personal justice.  
><em>

"_Not anytime soon," Alfred said with an apologetic tone. "During your years of study, you will only see fellow Shinigami students and staff at the Academy. After that, the Main Branch will make sure that you are sent to a location that is foreign to you, so as to avoid encounters with any acquaintances from your previous life. It is possible to transfer back to your hometown after a period of absence, though that it is somewhat uncommon."_

_Damn. Not only did I have to delay my revenge for the purpose of education, but I would have to further delay it because I wasn't allowed to begin my job in London. I clearly wouldn't have a chance to see Grell for __**years**__, or anyone else from my old life for that matter…_

…_and then it hit me—hard—as if that chainsaw had pierced into me again: I was also barred from seeing my Ciel, who had only just come back to me. Of all the things to take from me, my opportunity to spend my life alongside my nephew was the most unforgivable. My transformation felt more like a curse when I knew that, despite avoiding true death, I could not take care of that boy, who was now completely alone in the world._

_I looked to Alfred. I must have taken on a sort of pleading expression, because the man responded with wistful, caring words: _

"_Even though you will not be permitted to have direct contact with your past human friends, perhaps in time you might look on from the shadows."_

_I gave a slight nod, willing myself not to cry. I was too strong for that, and far too angry. Perhaps it would be years before I could exact my revenge, but it would be well worth it, and most likely sweeter with time. For taking away my human life, my hopes of something beyond, and my time with Ciel, Grell Sutcliff would pay._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **November 9, 1888 marks the death Mary Jane Kelly, the last victim of Jack the Ripper, and hence also the death of Madam Red. Me? I'm a little quirky and want to celebrate the occasion by publishing fanfiction.

Thanks again to Contramundi01, who was particularly helpful with this scene. The premise of the Fit to Wear Red storyline was born from a conversation between the two of us about the origins of the Shinigami, and after both of us speculated that they once had human lives, we realized that our theory opens up many exciting possibilities for the Kuroshitsuji series. It also leaves many questions, but the readers will simply have to wait and see how the story unfolds.

I hope to provide monthly updates, so check back around mid-December.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Black stiletto ankle boots clicked forward with a sense of purpose. Angelina Durless was the perfect picture of stylishness in her black, body-skimming skirt suit and crisp, white collared shirt, and the remnants of an old passion shone through in the crimson tie and gloves that she flagrantly wore, despite the fact that they fell outside of the stringent Shinigami dress code. These things, combined with her striking, red hair and the application of shameless, red lipstick, made the woman ever-worthy of her nickname from the past: Madam Red.

The London Branch stood in front of her, tall and astute. Anyone else might have been intimidated by the building, but Madam Red could not help but smile to herself as she looked up at it. At last,she was here. After over fifteen years of waiting and several days of travel, she was _finally _here.

Just outside the main entrance, she was met by a serious-looking Shinigami with neatly combed, dark hair, and who spoke in a very professional manner:

"Angelina Durless," he addressed her, "I see that you made it safely to London. I am William T. Spears, supervisor from the Dispatch Management Division."

"Oh," she said, recognizing the name. "You were the one who sent the request form."

"The Formal Request for Transfer—yes. While I do apologize for the inconvenience, London was in need of greater numbers, and you happened to have one of the most impressive records."

A brazen grin flashed across her face. "Why, thank you."

The supervisor raised an eyebrow in irritation. "I may have stated a fact, Miss Durless, but that is not a reason for you to exhibit overconfidence." He paused for a moment to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Now, if you'll please follow me."

With a compliant nod, she followed Mr. Spears into the building, and he familiarized her with her new workplace. It was nothing special, really, and not so different from France: Glasses Department, Death Scythe Department, workers' lounge, and…

"Here." William gestured to a desk in a room filled with Shinigami who hunched over piles of paperwork. "This is your desk, and _this—" _–he placed a large stack of papers on the desk— "—is your work. I expect you to finish as much of it as possible during the next few hours, but at 12:15 in the afternoon, you are permitted to take a lunch break. I insist that you use it to go to the lounge and introduce yourself to the other Shinigami there. It is necessary that you form positive relations with your coworkers, or else the Dispatch Society will not function properly. It is simply a matter of caution and protocol. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," she obediently chimed, though she was actually quite displeased with the amount of paper on her desk. Within the stack were several files meant to officially document her transfer and arrival, and a large text meant to inform her of the current activities and goals of the London Branch. It was so mundane and tiresome…

* * *

><p>Grell's eyes darted nervously about the room as he tapped his foot against the floor. He simply could not sit still—not knowing that <em>she<em> was in the office somewhere.

"Grell Sutcliff."

The restless redhead turned his attention to the other Shinigami in the room. William T. Spears now sat calmly behind his desk, hands folded in front of his face in a businesslike manner.

"Do you know why I called you into my office?"

"I haven't the _slightest_ idea," Grell lied through his teeth.

"Then allow me to make it clear for you."

Grell gulped, fearing the words to come.

"In the days since you learned of Angelina Durless's transfer, your work has suffered greatly. Half-finished papers, quickly-reaped souls… It's a hindrance to the Dispatch Society."

Grell fidgeted a bit, knowing that there was more to come.

"Additionally, your incessant complaints and anxiety have annoyed your coworkers, and it seems that you have impeded their work as well. To put it simply: you've been a thorn in everyone's side."

The redhead looked up with pleading eyes. "Yours, too, Will?"

"You're always a thorn in my side, Sutcliff," William muttered.

"Oh, how sweet of you to say so!" Grell exclaimed with a blush. "I didn't think you'd noticed, Will!"

"What?" William said, raising an eyebrow." I can assure you that those words were in no way complimentary."

"That's what you _say,_ Will," Grell persisted with a flirtatious smile, "but I know better."

The serious Shinigami shifted slightly in his seat, feeling uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "May we please get back to the point?"

"I'd rather not," Grell teased. "This is much more fun."

With a sigh of annoyance, the superior grabbed his Death Scythe and swung it downward to give Grell a quick whack on the head.

"Ow!" Grell shouted. "What was that for?"

"You are not here to have fun, Sutcliff," William answered, retracting the scythe. "This is a serious matter. I cannot sit idly by as the work of my employees suffers. The Board is liable to punish us all if London does not fare well, and I do abhor overtime… Needless to say, I must attempt to extract this thorn. Consider this a warning, Sutcliff: you have one day to pull yourself together. If you come in tomorrow with an attitude that is anything less than normal, there will be consequences."

The redhead blinked back at William disbelievingly. "So… wait… are you saying… I can have the day off?"

"Yes, but, as I said, you must use this time to prepare yourself to work without causing trouble. Based on your actions and comments during the past week, it is clear that you are not currently of the right mind to work alongside Angelina Durless."

Grell sunk into his seat. "Why did you have to remind me of that, Will?" he whined in dismay. "How the hell am I supposed to work with _her?_"

"I am afraid that I cannot answer that question," William said, "however, that is precisely why I am giving you the day off."

Grell looked away and let out a heavy sigh.

"Now, be on your way. You need some time to think."

Grell quietly stood from his seat and started to leave the room, but he stopped in the doorway. "Hey, Will?"

William looked up. "Yes?"

"Thanks."

The supervisor's face was as blank as ever, yet he seemed a bit discomfited by Grell's comment. "It's not for you, Sutcliff," he defensively insisted. "It's for the good of the bureaucracy."

Grell smiled to himself, reading beyond William's vacant expression. "Well, thanks anyway."

* * *

><p>As the time neared 12:15 P.M., Madam Red eyed the clock like a hawk. She was more than ready to take a break from her menial office tasks, and she was especially eager to see what kind of stir she would cause in the workers' lounge.<p>

She had seen it before during her time in France; being a female Shinigami of her position was unheard of, because the standard view of women was still in effect. Field work was a sensitive subject, since females were viewed as delicate, gentle, and emotional in nature—attributes that could potentially interfere with the Shinigami career. Additionally, a candidate's mind was a key factor in determining eligible positions, and since many women did not hone their intellect during their human lives, they often found themselves unqualified for higher positions.

But, Madam Red had always defied social expectations, even as a human. With touches of vibrant red in her attire, dashes of heavy make-up, and pure scarlet hair, cut shorter than was proper, she was atypical of the average woman. Of course, her appearance was not her only deviance; her extensive education, fiery personality, and occasional vulgarity also made her an outlier.

She was determined to uphold that character, despite how drastically Shinigami life had changed her existence. Even the idea of vengeance had not left her, especially now that she had transferred to the London Branch. She assumed that the guilty culprit—her maker, Grell Sutcliff—was somewhere in this office, and a twisted part of her hoped that she would come across him in the lounge.

At last, the minute hand indicated that the time was precisely 12:15 P.M.

Madam Red stood from her desk and glanced about the room to gauge her surroundings. She recalled rather quickly that the lounge was located just down the hallway—it was the third door on the left—and she headed toward her goal with a confident strut.

The door stood wide open, and she boldly stepped inside. She immediately scanned the room for any sign of Grell, but all she saw were some rather bland-looking Shinigami—all male, of course—with short haircuts, standard business attire, and stoic facial expressions. When they took notice of her presence, they promptly ceased their talk and stared at her through narrowed, emerald eyes.

"Stiff crowd," she scoffed under her breath. "These guys have clearly been taking lessons from Mr. Spears."

She failed to notice, however, that another Shinigami stood in the corner of the room, with his back to the crowd as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He picked up on the social cue and turned around, asking, "Hey, what is it? Did I miss something?"

Hearing the voice, she looked in the direction of the sound. There in the corner stood a Shinigami with a particularly young face and feathery, orange-blond hair that seemed unkempt compared to the others in the room. His pea-green eyes—framed by the thick, black rims of over-sized glasses—widened when he saw the woman in the room. This moment of weakness was brief and subtle, though, and he quickly regained composure.

The orange-haired Shinigami softened his eyes into a sly, almost seductive look as he set the coffeepot back on the counter. Then, taking a step forward, he flashed an amatory smirk in the woman's direction. "You must be Angelina Durless," he assumed.

"Yes," she answered, running her eyes cautiously along his figure. The collar of his white shirt was not fully buttoned, nor was his tie particularly tight, and, with a swagger in his step, an air of looseness hung about him. Perhaps it was something to be thankful for in a stuffy setting such as this one, but Angelina could not help but find his demeanor suspicious. "And you are…?"

The Shinigami stood before her and introduced himself with a confident tone: "Ronald Knox." Then, he grabbed her hand, lifted it, and bent down to place a soft kiss upon the crimson glove. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Durless."

Wary of his gesture, Madam Red retracted her hand.

Ronald chuckled lightheartedly at her response. "Come now, don't be so guarded. Let me show you around the lounge and introduce you to everyone." He artfully placed a guiding hand on her back, then led her toward the group of Shinigami standing in the middle of the room. He gestured to each of her new coworkers and listed what sounded like rather generic, expendable names for what were, to her, mere copies of William T. Spears. The bland Shinigami spoke to her with brusque words that lacked any effort at cordiality.

Afterward, Ronald pulled her aside, to the corner of the room where the coffeepot sat, and whispered, "Don't mind them. They're just—"

"I know how it is, Mr. Knox," she interrupted, "yet you seem to think that I've never experienced this before."

Ronald drew back, a bit flustered. "My apologies, Miss Durless, I hadn't considered—"

"No matter," she dismissed. "I always earn my rightful respect in these situations, after some time."

Ronald nodded and spoke quietly, "Right. That's good then."

"So," Madam Red said, changing the tone and subject, "I see that we can get coffee here."

"Oh!" Ronald exclaimed, his green eyes lighting up. "Yes, the lounge always has warm coffee and tea prepared for us. There are also sandwiches and fruit here every day. It's nice, but it's not much, so some of the other Shinigami actually prefer to leave the office to go to the cafés in town. I often leave, too, since the cafés are always more…" He paused, looking around at the tense men in the room. "…pleasant."

"I see," Madam Red said, bringing a gloved hand to her chin as she thought. "Perhaps that explains why Grell Sutcliff isn't here?"

At that remark, the other Shinigami in the room muttered softly to themselves.

"Mr. Sutcliff?" Ronald repeated with a little laugh. "He's been a wreck for days now. He either sulks and complains all day, or he goes around acting like he's terrified—"

"Of what, pray tell, is he so terrified?" Madam Red wondered, her red lips curling into a ruthless smirk.

Ronald fixed his eyes upon hers, and one sly gaze met another. "Do I even have to tell you?" he grinned.

"No," she answered. "You've told me enough already."

* * *

><p>The day faded into evening, and the evening into night. By all means, Ronald Knox should have been asleep by now, or at least out enjoying some raucous party, but the young Shinigami had no desire for either scenario at the moment. Instead, he sat on a rooftop and silently stared at the silver moon. He could not get that woman out of his mind: Angelina Durless…<p>

She was unlike any female Shinigami that he had ever encountered. Her work outfit was standard in most ways—pure white shirt, black skirt suit, black shoes—but she had spiced it up in a few simple ways that made her all the more intriguing. Never had he seen a Shinigami with red gloves. His eyes were instantly drawn to those gloves when he saw her, and he could not help but lift her hand and touch his lips to the fine leather.

Angelina was also the first female he had ever known to be a Shinigami in the truest sense, with her own Death Scythe, the dangerous job that went along with it, and a rank equivalent to his own. He had even heard that Angelina earned a triple-A grade in Practical Technique during her years at the Academy.

As if those things were not fascinating enough, Angelina's conduct was different from that of any woman that he had ever met, Shinigami or otherwise. Whereas Ronald was accustomed to women melting at the sight of his smile or the sound of his voice, Angelina had reacted to his advances in a cynical manner, and she was even so bold as to interrupt him when he spoke.

The cruel twist that played at her lips was another matter still. Grell Sutcliff's own complaints had revealed that Angelina and the flamboyant Shinigami had a connected, controversial past, and although Ronald did not wish any ill will upon Mr. Sutcliff, he could not deny that there was something powerfully attractive in Angelina's malevolence.

Ronald had never met anyone like her before, and he could only come to one conclusion: Angelina Durless was his biggest challenge and greatest prize.

* * *

><p><em>. . .<em>

_**A/N: **__Oh snap! Ronald Knox is here to join the party! Looks like things just got a little more interesting. ;)_

_Check for your monthly update in January. I have a very thorough schedule drawn out, and I intend to stick to it. No one likes it when an author goes for several months without posting an update. _

_Also: Special thanks to Stranded Fashionista (a.k.a. ssquared) for helping me to envision Madam Red's Shinigami attire. He keeps a fashion blog and uses the website Polyvore to assemble creative outfits. He's been known to include a nerdy reference or two in his posts, so I asked him to put together Madam Red's Shinigami outfit for me, and this was the result: www. polyvore .com/ for_madame_red/ set?id=32988364. You'll have to take the spaces out of that link for it to work, but it's nice to have a visual to go with the chapter._


	4. Interlude: The Blood Red Butler

_**A/N: **__Hey, everyone! I just want to thank you for reviewing and adding this story to your alert lists. It's wonderful to see that you find the storyline intriguing. Upon publication, I was worried that many of you would be driven away by the near-AU plot twist, so thank you for giving __Fit to Wear Red__ a chance._

_With that said, allow me to introduce the first "Interlude" of the story. As you may recall, "Interludes" are marked by a switch to first-person perspective—in this case, the perspective of Grell Sutcliff. The purpose of changing the perspective is to capture a particular mood for the scene. As you read, I think you will understand my decision to write from Grell's point of view._

_Now, it's time to find out how the Shinigami spends his day off!_

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: The Blood-Red Butler, with Memories of Whitechapel<strong>

Having the day off really wasn't as pleasant as it sounded, especially under the condition that I use my time to find the answers to some needlessly complicated questions.

What was I supposed to do—just sit at home and contemplate life? That sounded _dreadful, _so I figured: if I _must_ think about these things, I might as well _go _somewhere.

But where to go? I wasn't sure. After all, there existed no such magical place—on Earth or otherwise—that could rightly enlighten me as to how to deal with the wrath of a woman… especially when that woman's wrath was invoked by something that she would probably call "betrayal" or "murder."

…Not to say that I didn't do those things. I _did _murder her, and I suppose that the killing of one's partner _would_ classify as betrayal.

Oh, how _frustrating!_

If only I'd been thinking clearly that night! I _knew_ the origins of Shinigami—souls that weren't on the Death List, souls that feared the afterlife, blah, blah, and so on—but I just wasn't _thinking. _How could I, when I was so disappointed in her weakness? Not to mention drunk with the thrill of the blood, the gore, and all that glorious _red…_ The last thing on my mind was the chance that my actions could literally come back to haunt me someday.

In fact, the possibility of her becoming a Shinigami didn't even cross my mind until several years later—between work and the pursuit of a certain demon-butler, I was pleasantly occupied for quite some time—but I shrugged off that idea, thinking, if she hadn't come back yet, perhaps, by some gaffe of the Shinigami system, she had, in fact, died and _stayed _dead.

But I couldn't be that lucky, could I?

It just wasn't _fair_.

As my blood boiled with anger, my feet carried me faster and faster through the London streets. I didn't really think about where I was going—I just ran and let the wind comb my hair. Ah, that felt nice; I did take pride in those long, red locks…

Hmm.

This place looked familiar—a little trashy and run down, but familiar. Yes, this was where I originally found her, alone and covered in blood… and that building over there… that was where we first killed together…

Suddenly, I stopped. Had I really brought myself _here? _I took another look around, just to make sure.

It was true. I was standing at the heart of Whitechapel, where everything started.

I didn't really know what to do. I hadn't been to Whitechapel in years, and, seeing it, my heart sunk with an empty, nostalgic feeling. A particular building seemed to call out to me, and I gravitated toward it; the old thing was clearly empty and abandoned these days, so I stuck my head inside. The memories were so vivid…

In my head, I could see the killer that I was back then. So bold! So wild! So carefree! I did what I wanted, and I didn't give a damn about anything else. I feared no one, and I didn't have a single worry. I was having _fun._

…Unlike now.

No, now, I felt much more like that quiet, nervous façade—the meager butler, ever so self-conscious and suicidal.

Heh, maybe suicide _would_ be easier in this situation. With an angry Madam Red after me, I was liable to die anyway. It would save me the trouble of worrying about how to act or what to say…

Such _miserable_ thoughts. Wasn't I the complete opposite of that useless fool who I pretended to be? Wasn't I a beautiful, confident woman?

No.

I had almost forgotten—I wished I could—that _he_ was my human life.

Anger flared up inside me, and before I was even conscious of my actions, I had made three long gashes down the walls of that horrid building. Oh, how good it felt to slash away the memories! I wildly tore into the brick, twisting my Death Scythe to make sure that each strike did the most possible damage.

I couldn't stay there any longer. It was making me far too anxious, and I hadn't found a single answer to any of my questions.

As I walked aimlessly throughout the streets, my mind kept returning to my human life, when everything was merely an act. No one ever appreciated my beauty—my flair. No, the only time that I could let my true self shine was when some wealthy hunk commissioned me to design a dress for a wife or paramour. Oh, how I always wished that a handsome prince would whisk me away! But no one ever came…

Ah, but of course not! Even though I wore such beautiful makeup and called myself a woman, I was still a man, and _that_ would never change. I could color my hair, wear false eyelashes, and even paint my nails, yet I would forever be… _male._

That was the one respect in which my disguise was not an act: I was a man, and that was why I fell for _her. _Oh, those days when I was just her meek butler! I didn't have to worry about reaping souls, doing paperwork, or being kicked every Wednesday. It was a good, albeit short experience.

_GRARGH!_

There was no reason to be happy, thinking about that time! As the butler, I had to hide myself, lock away my fiery nature, and, even worse, I had to ignore _all_ of those cute guys!

And yet, I couldn't lie to myself…

Being unable to chase after men didn't bother me when I was with her. We had such fun together, killing all of those pathetic whores, picking out the perfect dresses for her to wear at parties, and talking the nights away with whatever popped into our heads…

I didn't even mind being a butler, really. I wasn't _that_ bad at it, except when I tried to make tea—I never did manage to do that well—and when I got lost while driving the carriage…

I stopped.

While I was lost in thought, I seemed to have wandered back to my own apartment. I stepped inside, hoping that my home would provide me with comfort, but then I realized how chillingly quiet it was. It made me nervous.

Restlessly, I began to pace back and forth. Something wasn't right. I could _feel _it.

That old mirror in my hallway was mocking me. I quit pacing and stood in front of it, watching as my timid reflection gazed back at me. Normally I was a vision of radiance, dazzling red from every angle, but now… Maybe it was because I was in such a sour mood, but my favorite red coat didn't seem to fit as fabulously as it normally did. _I _didn't seem as fabulous…

Ugh, where was all of my confidence? Why did I feel so depressed, so useless, so hopeless? Why did I suddenly have the urge to slip into my butler persona?

I went to my room, found one of my hair ribbons, and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. It was a sensation that I hadn't felt for _years_—the hair no longer draping over my shoulders or flowing down my back. With a sigh, I trudged back to the mirror to see how I looked.

Oh God.

Oh _God,_ no...

Why was I staring into the face of a meager fool?

My gorgeous, scarlet hair had been replaced by the most drab, common brown. The sparkling glasses that were custom-made for me when I graduated from the academy were now unadorned and commonplace. And my _teeth!_ Where were my glorious points, perfect for intimidating my foes and symbolic of my wild beauty?

Fear racked my body and my shoulders slumped. My coat slipped slowly to the floor, and the terrifying image of mediocrity was complete.

I wasn't staring at Grell Sutcliff, the flaming red Shinigami; I was staring at Grell Sutcliff, the pathetic tailor who killed himself all those years ago…

A desperation seized me, and I tore the band from my hair. I ran my fingers through the tresses, envisioning a brilliant ruby. It worked: my hair returned to the burning red that it usually was. Next, I removed my glasses and blurrily stared at them, willing them to return to the red flames adorned with skulls. That, too, worked. Lastly, I thought of long points and gave a wide grin, restoring my wonderful, fanglike teeth.

I looked into the mirror and saw my perfect self.

Relief flooded my mind and I wearily dragged myself to bed, making sure to put my coat back on its usual resting place. I then blew out my candle and closed my eyes…

* * *

><p>I awoke with a chill coming over me, combined with a tense soreness throughout my entire body. Drowsily, I lifted myself into a sitting position and realized that I'd kicked all of the covers off of my bed. I grumbled to myself, knowing that I must've had a troubled sleep, and then I peeked through the window to gauge the time. It wasn't even light out yet; I was up much earlier than usual.<p>

Ugh.

With a yawn, I stretched out my tired limbs, then lazily crawled out of bed and fixed myself a simple breakfast: bread and milk. That was all that I needed. I didn't care to put any effort into something more fanciful on this early, achy morning.

Afterward, I followed my normal routine and readied myself for work. I sighed as I slipped into the boring, black and white business attire, and then I went to the mirror to check my appearance.

…But I couldn't bring myself to look into the damn thing! What if the mirror tricked me again, like it did the night before? Oh, but it wasn't a trick, was it? It was _real. _My hair, my teeth, my glasses, my very sense of _self…_

I fearfully grabbed a strand of my hair and pulled it forward, glancing to the side to see if it was, in fact, the color that it _should _be:

Red.

Finding the color that I so dearly loved, I mustered the courage to look at my reflection. Thankfully, my teeth and glasses looked fine, but… something was missing…

My nervous, viridian eyes darted to the chair that stood beside my mirror. On the back of the chair lay my cherished red coat. I reached over and grabbed it, then raised it to my face and buried my nose in it, sniffing the fabric. Ah… It smelled of a perfume that I occasionally wore—a faded scent, but still feminine. I then draped the coat over my shoulders and turned my eyes back to the mirror.

"Such a beautiful coat," I mused as I observed the reflection. I had worn that coat every day since I obtained it. Office work… field work… it didn't matter; the coat was the most-treasured gem of my wardrobe.

"But what if she sees it?" I wondered. "Maybe I shouldn't…"

With a miserable frown, I started to remove the coat, but my pathetic reflection in the mirror sent a surge of determination through my body.

After all of these years, I had never questioned the coat. _Never. _And didn't Will say that there would be consequences if I didn't act like my normal self? The whole thing was absurd—completely and utterly absurd.

"What the hell am I _thinking?"_ I raised my voice, pulling the coat up again. I then let out an irritated grunt and turned my back to the mirror. Placing my hands on my hips, I declared, "This is _my _coat! _I'm_ the only lady who's fit to wear red!"

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **__And now you know how the story got its title. Before planning this chapter, I had no idea what to call the fic, and all of the files were saved under a joke name. This scene was so pivotal, though, that the last line seemed like a perfect name for the overall story._

_I'll be back again in February with your update. The release dates have been pre-planned, and you can find them on my profile, if you're curious about when to check for the next chapter._

_~Leave a review if you liked the "Interlude" layout~_


	5. Interlude: The Scarlet Shadow

_**A/N: **__Contramundi01 here—Anncatz' partner in planning, editing, and writing. I just wanted to personally thank all of the readers for the support that Anncatz and I have received. It's so much fun to bring our own little spin to the characters that we love so much. I hope you all continue to enjoy the fic as we release new chapters._

_In other, more relevant news, we have another "Interlude" for you. Yes, you will occasionally see two of these documents next to each other. The perspective depends on the focus of the document, so a shift to first-person makes more sense for scenes that detail the thoughts and feelings of a single character. In this particular document, we glimpse into the mind of the "Scarlet Shadow…"_

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: The Scarlet Shadow, with Phantom Hopes<strong>

Memories.

Life was full of them. Some of them were crisp, vivid, and lingering, while others were more ethereal—flitting in and out of consciousness. An endless stream of thoughts, feelings, and knowledge coursed through the mind, and the interplay between them was nothing short of complicated.

We were taught to hate demons. All of those years at the academy, it was ingrained into our minds that soul collection and judgment were the Shinigami's most sacred tasks, and demons were, by nature, the greatest hindrance to our life's purpose. Our very existence revolved around the reaping of the souls, while the demons lived to consume them. It was an age-old rivalry, pitting our quest for meaning against their need to survive. Demons were the unquestionable enemy.

But I could never think that way. Despite the academy's best efforts, I simply couldn't visualize the greedy, soul-devouring fiends that were described to me. Instead, the image that came to mind was that of a well-dressed, dark-haired man who busied himself with preparing tea, polishing dishes, and setting tables—a helpful and efficient butler. Even after I encountered other, less civilized demons in my field work, _that_ was the image that stayed with me, etched deeply into my memory. The term "demon" was irrevocably tied to Sebastian Michaelis.

On the night of my death, I overheard the discussion between Grell and Sebastian. I always suspected that my nephew's butler was a little _too _capable, but I never guessed that he was a demon, and I certainly wasn't aware of what it meant to have a demon as a servant. It was something that I slowly came to understand as I attended the Shinigami Academy, where I learned of "leashed" or "chained" demons, bound to a single soul by a mutual contract…

My Ciel.

At first, I couldn't comprehend why a boy so young would make a contract with a demon, but, as the years went by, I began to realize how beneficial a demon could be to his circumstances—alone in the world, taking on the adult Phantomhive business of policing the underground… The demon contract didn't matter to me. I knew that I would always love and support Ciel, and as for Sebastian…

There was no way for me to know the obligations imposed by the contract, but I was hopeful. Sebastian had proven himself to be a strong, reliable caretaker on many occasions. Even though I was miles away, I always had faith that Ciel was safe. Besides, Sebastian promised me that he'd take care of my Ciel.

And that was why I decided to visit the Phantomhive estate.

I rested my Death Scythe on my shoulder and looked out to the horizon. Far too many years had passed since I last watched the sun rise over London. For years, I'd dreamed of returning to this city. London was my home and my life—or, what was left of it, at least. The familiar scenery made my heart brim with lively memories, and I couldn't help but feel giddy.

I could see Ciel's face in my mind—the clearest image that I'd been able to muster for years. I pictured his beautiful, blue eyes, just like his mother's, and I remembered holding him when he was just a small child, laughing and smiling… It was a shame that he grew into such a serious boy, but, even then, I had fond memories of playing chess and billiards with him. He was still my darling nephew.

I had some spare time to stop by the manor before work that morning. I knew that I couldn't have direct contact with anyone—Shinigami laws forbade it—but I could nevertheless look on from the shadows. As long as I remained quiet and unseen, I could catch a glimpse of the Phantomhive household as it was today… I imagined that Ciel was nearly thirty years old, and he was undoubtedly handsome, like his father, and he was probably married to Lizzie… Perhaps they even had children of their own by now!

Seeing the mansion as it stood in its proper place, I was overjoyed. I'd waited so long for this moment! The one thing that I wanted—more than anything else in the world—was to simply _see _Ciel again. I wanted to watch him live as the strong, smart man that I envisioned, and I wanted to feel some trace of the connection that I'd missed for so many years.

With a wide smile, I willed myself invisible to the human eye and excitedly circled the premises. It was oddly quiet, and the garden looked strangely unkempt and overgrown, but perhaps that was simply because the servants hadn't tended to it yet—and if Ciel still employed the same servants as he did before, then they were incompetent anyway.

Oh, but surely Sebastian was already bustling about somewhere! He was probably making preparations for breakfast… Ciel was always so particular about his foods and teas… Grinning to myself, I peeked into the kitchen window and searched for a sign of the busy demon-butler.

Hmm. He wasn't in the kitchen, so I decided to look in all of the windows; he had to be _somewhere. _A contracted demon wouldn't leave his master, and Ciel wouldn't have gotten rid of him anyway, with Sebastian being what he was…

My circle around the mansion proved futile, but, luckily, I discovered an open window that I could sneak into, on the off chance that everyone was in one of the inner rooms. Room after room I searched, yet I couldn't find anyone on the ground floor. After a while, I moved on and checked upstairs, but I couldn't find anyone there either. That was the problem with mansions; they were just too large to search effectively. For all I knew, everyone could've moved around and entered a room that I'd already searched. It was so frustrating—as if they were purposely hiding from me.

Finally, the only room left unchecked was Ciel's office.

…At last a sign of life!

Documents were strewn all over the desk, as if they had recently been reviewed, and a newspaper headline was clearly discernible from the doorway: "Funtom Industries Opens New Indian Branch." I walked over to the desk, eager to mine the new lead as to Ciel's location. Hmm. The desk and documents were dusty, and the newspaper was dated a few years ago. Nevertheless, I decided to read it:

"_Mr. Tanaka, steward of the Phantomhive household and representative in Funtom negotiations, has confirmed that the famed toy and candy company has indeed gone forward with plans to open a branch in India, under the management of the Earl's personal acquaintance, Prince Soma Asman Kadar. The teary-eyed Kadar is quoted as saying 'I'm so glad that Ciel—I mean the Earl Phantomhive—has decided to entrust a part of his company to me. I swear that I will do everything in my power to show him that his trust is not misplaced!' The Earl, whom we were lucky to catch leaving the new factory, had no comment other than to glare at the antics of Kadar, causing some to speculate that the Earl has—"_

Ink stained the rest of the document, as if it had been spilled while Ciel was in some sort of rush. Maybe Ciel and his servants were attending to business in India, or perhaps they'd even moved there permanently, to keep an eye on this "Soma Asman Kadar…"

But, even with this evidence, the fact remained that the paper was out-of-date, and the entire manor—inside and out—was devoid of any sort of motion or presence.

What other explanations could there be?

Maybe Ciel was merely vacationing elsewhere in Europe, showing his wife and children the various cultures across the continent.

Or maybe…

Maybe the contract had been fulfilled. Maybe my dear Ciel was already dead, his soul consumed by the demon. Maybe I had completely missed my chance to see my nephew again.

I opened a window and leapt to a nearby tree, turning my eyes to the horizon again. In tune with the rising sun, my hopes dimmed and faded, giving way to that bright light known as revenge. No matter what the truth was—whether Ciel was dead or simply absent—I would've _known, _if not for Grell Sutcliff.

I could kill Grell for this. I could run up to him and tear into him without a word, shredding him into appallingly unrecognizable pieces—I really could—but, all those years ago, I learned a lesson: vengeance requires time and tact. My escapade as "Jack the Ripper" was quite the thrill, but I was young and rash, and I ultimately paid for my conspicuous crimes.

Did I regret the murders? Not particularly, but I _did _regret my lack of subtlety. In the years that followed, I spent a lot of time wondering what would've happened if I'd been more discreet, but, eventually, I stopped dwelling on that and starting thinking about how I could improve my methods in the future.

Blind, physical revenge was not an option—not immediately, anyway. Instead, a different approach was in order, and, luckily, Grell was an easy target. The man was a natural drama queen, and thus he was easy to provoke. I could effortlessly weave into his mind and watch him squirm and struggle. With enough careful prodding, _he _would eventually come to _me,_ and then…

I stepped forward and laughed quietly to myself. It was time to get to work.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **__Ah, a short scene, but an important one nonetheless. Luckily, next month's chapter is about twice as long; you'll see more of William, Ronald, and Grell, and you'll learn more about Madam Red's Death Scythe. Sounds exciting, right?_

_Also, it irks me that I had to put just "Tanaka" in the newspaper. Since he is Ciel's proxy for the Funtom Company, I feel like a real news article would have used his full name. Just me ranting. ;)_

_Check back on March 14, on which we will all celebrate Anncatz' birthday with the posting of a new chapter!_


	6. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

His office was a tidy, simplistic one. Every paper, utensil, and book was laid out in a deliberate, precise manner, as if each object had its own, unquestionable place in the world. Much like his sense of style—with his professional attire and slicked, parted hair—his office reflected a strict adherence to order, which guided his every decision. A bureaucrat through and through, William T. Spears always addressed his employees in a calm and formal fashion:

"Angelina Durless. Ronald Knox."

Two pairs of vibrant, yellow-green eyes devoted their attention to him. The woman known as "Madam Red" sat with a straight, alert posture, her legs crossed in a businesslike fashion, while the man sitting next to her leaned forward in his chair and rested his chin on his palm, a curious grin tugging at his lips. They barely had time to do anything that morning before the supervisor called them into his office.

William looked from one employee to the other and proceeded, "I have a special collection assignment for the two of you, so I hope that you had a chance to become acquainted with each other yesterday."

The aloof Shinigami perked up. "Oh yes," he happily reported. "Miss Durless and I had the fortune of meeting during lunch—"

"Good," William interrupted. "We can get straight to business then." He paused for a moment to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then continued matter-of-factly, "Today is going to be a busy day. Aside from the usual occurrences, a fatal incident is set to occur at 2:27 P.M., involving several casualties. There will be many souls to judge and little time to review the material, considering the numbers. I need Shinigami who are quick, but not at the expense of competency."

"Quick, huh?" Ronald laughed. "That's great. Work that can be finished quickly is the best kind."

"That opinion is exactly why I chose you for this job, Ronald Knox," William sighed. "Your lax attitude is deplorable, yet you somehow manage to always complete your work, and for the amount of time that you spend on it—which I'm sure is not long—it is actually done quite well. For once, it seems that your style will prove useful."

Ronald beamed happily back at him, and William mentally cursed for having to exploit the very thing that he despised about the young Officer; Ronald was liable to take it as a compliment. With another sigh, William turned his attention to the female in the room. "As for you, Angelina Durless—I simply wish to see if you can live up to your reputation as an excellent worker in the field."

"So, then," Ronald chimed in, turning his clever gaze to the woman beside him, "it looks like you and I are partners for this assignment."

Sensing the eyes upon her, Madam Red instinctively glanced over at Ronald, but she quickly turned her attention back to Mr. Spears.

"Correct," William said with a slight nod. "First, the two of you will review the documents regarding the subjects' lives, and then you will report to the scene to observe them for a short time. At 2:27 P.M., you will view the Cinematic Records and collect the souls according to your best judgment."

The supervisor stood from his desk and handed each Shinigami a stack of papers. "It is actually a very standard job," he assured them, "but London is pressed for time and numbers. I cannot afford to send too many workers out on this assignment, but it is admittedly too large for a single Shinigami. I trust that the two of you will be able to handle the situation?"

"You can place your confidence in me, Mr. Spears," Angelina promised.

"I believe that Miss Durless means to say that you can count on _us,"_ Ronald corrected with a grin.

William raised an eyebrow. "Indeed," he skeptically muttered. "Now get to work."

The two employees filed out of the office, with Ronald following closely behind the female Shinigami. He stopped her briefly, though, by placing a hand on her shoulder. He then leaned in close to her and whispered suggestively in her ear, "I look forward to working with you, Angelina."

The woman pursed her scarlet lips and replied, "I'm sure you do, Mr. Knox."

* * *

><p>That afternoon, after studying the proper documents, the two Shinigami departed for the scene of the fatal incident. Hidden from human sight, they leapt onto the roof of a nearby building so that they could observe the entire area. A busy crowd of souls gathered in the streets below, completely unaware of the fate that awaited them.<p>

It was fitting, really, that Madam Red's first job at the London Branch should be of this magnitude. After all, death was her companion. No matter which role she played—whether she was the loving sister, wife, and aunt, the coldblooded, vengeful murderer, or the professional reaper of souls—a dark cloud always followed her.

Thus she looked upon the crowd with a lingering bitterness. "It's funny," she sarcastically remarked, folding her arms across her chest. "To them, it just seems like an average day at the market."

"Yeah, it's strange how a place like this can be the scene of so much death, huh?" Ronald lightly chuckled as he watched the activities below. "Of course—" —he turned his eyes to a group of men who quarreled in a lonely corner of the marketplace— "—I really wish that they'd hurry up." With an impatient sigh, he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I hate waiting for the deaths. It's so boring."

"My, my, aren't you just the emblem of sympathy?" Madam Red sneered. "If time means so much to you, then why don't you go ahead and kill them yourself?"

"Hey," Ronald defensively began, "I can't change what's on the Death List. It's not that I don't sympathize with them—"

"Just shut up and pay attention," Madam Red scolded. "It's about to happen."

One moment, the crowd of people busily bustled along, and the next, a series of gunshots rang through the air, giving way to screams and chaos. In the midst of the panic, more bullets were fired back and forth, and soon, all that remained was a ground littered with corpses.

Before Madam Red could react, Ronald eagerly leapt off of the building, pulled out his lawnmower-scythe, and swept over the bodies as if they were weeds. Immediately, the souls burst forth and reached to the sky, trying to escape the Shinigami who was intent on reaping them.

With an irritated grunt, Madam Red produced her own Death Scythe: a short, sharp weapon that bore a striking resemblance to a surgical amputation saw. "Are you insane?" she called after Ronald. "You should never free all of the souls at once!" She then jumped to the streets below and dashed toward the Cinematic Records.

At that moment, Ronald carelessly turned around to mow over another set of bodies, and Madam Red realized that they were on a collision course with one another. "Watch where you're going!" she shouted as she swung her right leg above her head and brought it crashing down on Ronald's shoulder, kicking him out of the way. Unfortunately, the kick caused her to lose speed, and in her moment of hesitation, the Cinematic Records swooped downward and wrapped themselves around her limbs, knocking her to the ground and paralyzing her. The film strips then proceeded to dig into her skin, causing her to let out a cry of pain.

Hearing this noise, Ronald quickly pushed himself off the ground and hoisted his Death Scythe above his head, severing the film that bound Madam Red. "Are you alright, Angelina?" he worried as he reached forward to help her.

"Damn it, Knox," the woman cursed, swatting his hand away. "You've made our job much harder than it should be. Just _look _at all of those records." She lifted herself up and massaged her arm where the film had torn into her. "So much for competency…"

Ronald raised his eyes and watched as a multitude of films soared wildly through the sky. "Oh," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, "I guess there _are _a lot of 'em. Sorry about that. Normally it's not a problem. My scythe has a storage compartment, so—"

"Just stay out of my way!" Madam Red yelled as she jumped to the rooftops, chasing after the Cinematic Records.

Ronald stepped back and observed the woman while she worked. She was swift and graceful, jumping with fluid, dance-like motions that pursued and dodged with ease. Her use of the bone-saw-scythe was equally elegant and proficient: every time that she extended her arm to slash a record, she flawlessly hit her target. Ronald's eyes eagerly followed her every movement, watching the way that her body swayed and curved. Never before had he seen a Shinigami work so beautifully…

But the sheer amount of souls eventually overwhelmed her. She hardly had time to view and judge all of the Cinematic Records before another mass of films steered toward her, and for a brief moment, her cold, green eyes filled with fear. She grounded her stance and held her scythe up in a defensive position, preparing to take a heavy hit.

It was time to act. Ronald lifted his Death Scythe and hopped up to the rooftops. With a wide, circular spin, his scythe absorbed the remaining records in one fell swoop.

Madam Red turned her eyes to him in surprise, her mind still processing the drastic turn of events.

Ronald flashed a clever grin and leaned against the handle of the lawnmower-scythe. "Looks like I've saved you twice now, Angelina," he slyly remarked, patting the trusty weapon. "I think you owe me."

Madam Red turned her head away with an irritated huff. "I wouldn't have been in those messes if it weren't for _you," _she hissed.

Ronald let out a light laugh. "If you say so."

The woman grumbled under her breath, but then she sensed a flash of light behind her; Ronald had pulled out one of the souls and was beginning to judge its Cinematic Record. He looked a little tattered from the fight, with his wavy hair more tousled than usual, but he took on a serious expression as he viewed the film. "Henry Gray. Born on the twenty-first of June, 1878. Died of blood loss due to a gunshot wound. Remarks: none." He ran his fingers through the scruffy, orange locks and let out a sigh as he denied the soul's prospect for life. "Well, that's that."

Just then, Ronald felt the woman's gaze upon him. Turning to face her, he curled his lips into a desirous smirk. "There are still a lot more souls that need to be judged. Care to join me, miss?"

"How annoying," Madam Red muttered under her breath, though she nevertheless approached him.

Together, the two Shinigami collaborated to view the records until every last soul was properly judged. Then, with the mission completed, Madam Red and Ronald finally returned to the London Branch. They entered the building looking exhausted and rough, though Ronald wore a slaphappy grin.

"That was some assignment, eh?" he reminisced. "Mr. Spears really took a risk by sending only two Shinigami out there, but, in the end, he picked the best ones for the job." He looked to his partner and grinned. "We make a great team, Angelina."

"Well, I suppose we _did _manage to complete the assignment even after you ruined everything," Madam Red scoffed.

"Yeah, and the best part," Ronald went on, lowering his voice into a lustful tone, "was watching you work. The way you move… You're fast… precise… strong… It's amazing."

"Of course," Madam Red said with a conceited chuckle.

Ronald smiled at her, then cocked his head to the side and gestured toward the hallway. "I think I'll go to the lounge and get a drink before I start on that reflective report for Mr. Spears. Would you like to sit and have a cup of coffee with me?"

The woman shook her head. "No. I'm fine, thank you."

"Suit yourself," Ronald said with a shrug. "Just stop by my desk when you're done with your portion of the report."

"Right."

"Talk to you later, Angelina," Ronald concluded, flashing one last smile before he turned down the hallway.

Madam Red ran her fingers through her messy hair. It was clear that Ronald Knox was the ladies' man of the London Division; she was glad to be rid of him. With a sigh of relief, she headed toward the office, but as she entered the usually-quiet room, she heard a voice:

"These are your desks," the dull tone spoke, as if forcibly reciting from a script. "You are expected to complete all of the paperwork regarding your transfers before you clock out today. We here at London apologize for the inconvenience, but your cooperation with our branch is greatly appreciated." The voice took a pause, and then continued with a lighter, squeaky tone: "Gracious, how _boring!_ How does Will talk like that every day? I swear, that's the last time I let him convince me to show the new employees around… but I digress. Have fun with your paperwork, boys!"

That voice, combined with those mannerisms, was something that she could never forget. It was unquestionably, inevitably, the flaming-red Shinigami, Grell Sutcliff.

Angelina turned her attention to the middle of the room, where a flighty Grell spun around with a cackle. He did not notice her at first, and she used that moment to comb his appearance with her cruel eyes. He looked just like the Shinigami that she remembered: long, flowing, red hair, sharp, jagged teeth, false eyelashes, effeminate, heeled boots… but he seemed to have added something to his look since she saw him last. Hanging neatly about his shoulders was a red coat with black trim and a black bow that was tied prettily around the back. That particular piece of fashion was all too familiar to her; it was _her_ coat, and she could easily guess what had transpired. That bastard must have taken it from her dead body, just after he thrust his Death Scythe into her heart…

"What a lovely coat you have, Grell," she spoke with cold, scathing words.

Grell's bubbly body froze in its tracks, immediately tensing up at the sound of Madam Red's chilling voice. He slowly turned his head and met the woman's gaze, seeing her green eyes—no longer the deep shade of red that he remembered—for the first time. The eyes, framed by scarlet glasses' rims, glared with an icy rancor that literally sent a shiver up Grell's spine. Those were not the same eyes. Aside from the change in color, they were crueler… unforgiving… even more vicious than the days of Jack the Ripper…

But the redhead refused to succumb to fear, especially on the subject of his beloved coat. He was, after all, fit to wear red.

"Why thank you!" he said, a fiendish little smile playing at his lips. "It does fit me well, doesn't it? Much better than the original owner, don't you think?" He twirled in place, the coat's red fabric fanning out beautifully.

"Hardly," Madam Red scoffed. "You don't fill it out well at all. It would look better on a hanger, Grell."

"Oh, very _funny,_ Madam," Grell growled, placing his hands on his hips. "I look _beautiful,_ and you know it! This coat is meant for somebody with style, elegance, and grace!" He stopped for a moment, glancing over the woman's messy hair and wrinkled clothes. "Things which you seem to be lacking today." His pointy teeth overtook his face with a wide, wicked grin.

"What a joke," Madam Red said, rolling her eyes. "You don't look beautiful, Grell. You look ridiculous."

"Hey! I resent that! You're the one who—"

Grell was about to deliver another cunning insult when William T. Spears suddenly came by, clamped his Death Scythe onto the collar Grell's coat, and pulled him away with a forceful tug. "Stop wasting everyone's time, Sutcliff," the superior scolded. "Miss Durless has a report to write, and you have several days' worth of missing paperwork to file."

"But _Will!"_

As William dragged the writhing redhead out of the room, Madam Red waved while laughing maliciously, "Better luck next time, Grell!"

* * *

><p>That night, a series of pounding clicks stamped incessantly back and forth.<p>

"What a _stupid _woman!" Grell's sharp voice rang through the empty apartment. "How could she _say _that?" He paused, placed his hands on his hips, and mocked in a feminine voice, "'You don't fill it out well at all; it would look better on a hanger.'" He then tossed his hands in the air. "Bah! What does _she _know? _I'm _the expert! I was a _tailor _during my life, for God's sake!"

He let out an exasperated cry and stopped his pacing. Turning his head, he noticed that he had stopped in front of the mirror, and, curiously, he oriented his body toward it. He pulled his coat up over his shoulders so that he wore it properly, and then he critically examined his reflection.

He had always loved that coat. Once upon a time, he had admired a certain woman every time that she wore it. Splendid scarlet on a slender frame… It did fit her perfectly.

A frown came to his lips. The truth was that it was a woman's coat, made for a feminine figure. For the first time, he realized that the fit was tight around his shoulders, too small for the broader, male frame, and the length along his torso was just a tad short. His then drew the coat closed and fully buttoned it, noticing that it puffed out awkwardly at his chest. He let out a soft whimper.

Madam Red was right; he really was unable to flush out the shape.

Tears began to fill his eyes as he unbuttoned the coat and removed it. With a longing sniffle, he trudged to his room and hung the coat in his wardrobe. He then lowered himself onto his bed and sobbed quietly as a sense of hopelessness washed over him. After all of those years, he never once stopped to question the fit of the coat, and he never used his skill or knowledge as a tailor to make alterations. It was made for a woman, and he was…

Not fit to wear red, after all.

* * *

><p><em>. . .<em>

_**A/N: **__So, do you enjoy the feisty chemistry between Ronald and Madam Red? I hope so, because I have a treat for you!_

_The month of April will work differently in that I will not post a regular Fit to Wear Red __update. Instead, I plan to publish an unrelated one-shot for the Ronald x Madam Red pairing. Look for it to arrive on April 18, under the title __One for the Lady.__ Prepare to be converted to a Ronald x Madam Red shipper, despite the utter obscurity and implausibility._

_Otherwise, your next __Fit to Wear Red__ update is scheduled for May 16._

_Oh, and if you want an idea of what Madam Red's scythe looks like, go search for the 1881 __Mathieu surgical amputation saw from Paris, France. That model best captures the image that I have in mind._**  
><strong>


	7. Interlude: The London Supervisor

_Fit to Wear__ Red__ is back with another Interlude!_

_Special thanks to Contramundi01 for writing this one. He deserves the credit; I merely edited the document to fit my own style. _**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: The London Supervisor, on a Not-So-Usual Tuesday<strong>

I woke up at 5:00 A.M. like I did every day.

I rose from my bed and dressed myself in the standard-regulation white dress shirt with black gloves, pants, shoes, and coat. Lastly, though most importantly, I picked up my glasses from my nightstand and put them on. The glasses were the symbol of my station—my life's work.

Because it was Tuesday, the agenda today included the weekly meeting of the Management Division and my weekly scolding of that walking rule-violation, Grell Sutcliff.

I was in the office at 5:53 A.M. as I was every day, so that I could have my cup of tea before the workday officially started.

By 6:00 A.M. I was sitting at my desk, already well underway with my paperwork. As supervisor from the Dispatch Management Division, it was my job to assign each field agent their particular charge and to make sure that the souls collected were processed in a timely manner.

This was my favorite part of my job: filing and sorting the neat stacks of paper in the inbox tray and moving them to the outbox one. With this task I had no fear of any of the papers failing to do their job; none ever went rogue, and none of them ever tried to seduce me.

And so time passed with no complications, and at 9:30 A.M. I walked to the conference room. The meeting was standard: each supervisor gave the statistics from the previous week, along with any complications that had arisen.

When my turn arrived, I stood up and spoke, "My division successfully reaped all assigned souls. There were no serious complications, and everyone preformed adequately. One mild incident did occur after the transfer of field agent Angelina Durless, but, as the one causing problems was Dispatch Officer Grell Sutcliff, I see no reason to hold Miss Durless accountable. I have already begun steps to rectify the problem. That is all."

The meeting concluded at precisely 12:00 P.M., and then I took a 15-minute lunch break. Afterward, I returned to my office and retrieved my Death Scythe from the plaque on the wall behind my desk. That was where I always kept my scythe during off-hours, meetings, or when I was in the office. But now I was to make my daily rounds, passing out assignments and punishing anyone found in violation of the Shinigami code of conduct.

In other words, it was time to go punish Grell Sutcliff.

I used my Death Scythe to push my glasses back into their proper position and went forth.

The cubicles in which the field agents completed their reports were arranged by rank and alphabetical order, so I thankfully had some time before I had to deal with Sutcliff and his annoying attempts to convince me to break protocol and have an intimate rendezvous with him.

As was proper, several of my staff members were—like me—calm and efficient with their work, but there were always those who felt they must stand out from the crowd.

One such individual was Ronald Knox.

The young Shinigami had been the source of a constant, yet rather minor annoyance ever since the day he joined the London Division. He had a habit of socializing during office hours, particularly with the female staff, but since his work was always done—and done correctly—the worst I could do was give him a rap on the head with my scythe and tell him to get back to work.

These days, however, his work had been slipping. Instead of his usual antics, he seemed to be rather focused on Angelina Durless. Normally I would not care, but when a Shinigami does not do his work, he puts the entire division in jeopardy. I was not going to work overtime just so Ronald Knox could daydream about intercourse.

Finally, after scolding a few more employees, I reached the "S" section of the higher-ranked officers. I was going to have to deal with Grell Sutcliff.

The section was oddly quiet as I entered it; it seemed that this week's violation was going to be sleeping on company time.

I decided to get the worst part over with quickly, so I went straight to Sutcliff's cubicle. Looking for the telltale flash of red, I kept walking onward. And then I hit the end of the row.

I seemed to have passed by him.

So, I turned around, and this time I focused on the nameplates on each of the cubicles until I found it.

"Grell Sutcliff, Dispatch Officer"

I walked into the cubicle with my Death Scythe raised, ready to wake the sleeping rule-breaker, when an unusual sight caused me to stop dead:

An unfamiliar man hunched over a pile paperwork. The look on his face was distant, yet his hands worked quickly as he absorbed himself in his report. His brown hair drooped over his face such that he had to tuck it behind his ears every few minutes, though he soon tired of this pattern, so he took a ribbon from his pocket and tied his hair back into a ponytail. He then immediately resumed his work, completely unaware of my presence.

Such dutiful, quiet work. I must have been mistaken about the cubicle, so I went and checked again.

"Grell Sutcliff, Dispatch Officer"

No, I had the right cubicle, but who was this man? It appeared as though Sutcliff was now forcing someone else to do his work for him… perhaps one of the new transfer-ins? How horribly low it was—even for Sutcliff—to take advantage of a fellow employee that way. This would mean _serious_ punishment. I walked back into the cubicle.

"Who are you, and why are you doing Mr. Sutcliff's paperwork?"

The mysterious man turned around, and the high-pitched, animated voice surprised me.

"What are you talking about, Will? Oh, it's because I'm not wearing the coat, isn't it? I know I've been wearing it for years now, but I didn't feel like it today. You should still recognize me, though; after all, we've been together for over a hundred years!"

The man in front of me was none other than Dispatch Officer Grell Sutcliff. Gone were the false eyelashes, the needlessly pointy teeth, the shameless, messy, red hair… Even the garish glasses had been exchanged for something colorless and normal. He seemed like a different person all together, devoid of the dress code violations that I had long since given up reprimanding.

I glanced downward to check for those characteristic red and black boots. Alas, a complete transformation would have been a little too hopeful on my part; somehow, those annoying heels had still managed to find their way into his outfit. If I had any doubts that this was, in fact, Grell Sutcliff, they were dispelled.

"My apologies, Mr. Sutcliff," I said with distaste. I hated having to apologize, especially for myself. "I must say that while I would have indeed recognized you without that gaudy coat, when combined with the changes to your hair and glasses, you are quite a different individual to the eyes."

"Huh?" Sutcliff said, his lips curling into a frown. "What are you talking about, Will?"

"It appears that, for the first time in over one hundred years, you are within regulation," I explained with a light tone of approval. "I take it that your new look and worth ethic are the result of the day off that I gave you?"

"I… um… I don't know…" he muttered, tilting his head to the side in confusion. "Maybe?"

"I approve of the new Grell Sutcliff. Keep up the good work."

And with that I walked away and finished my rounds.

With Sutcliff's new outlook and the addition of Angelina Durless to London's workforce, it seemed I would never have to work overtime again.


	8. Chapter 4

_Hello, friends! I apologize for making you wait a couple of months for the latest chapter of Fit to Wear Red, but here it is!_

_Unfortunately, I cannot tell you when to expect the next update. The next couple of drafts are very patchy right now and need a lot of work, but, at the very least, I can say that I know where the next few chapters are going. Now, how to write and express it is a different matter..._

_Anyway, enjoy this new chapter, and make sure to leave a review. Your words motivate me to keep working!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

A mirror.

He _had_ to find a mirror.

William's words rang in his head like the tone of a low, ominous bell, tolling in remembrance of someone who had been lost:

"_With the changes to your hair and glasses, you are quite a different individual to the eyes."_

It could not be true. The very thing that he feared—becoming that _man_ again—could not happen now. No. Surely William was joking.

…But William T. Spears was never one to joke, and Grell knew that.

With a forceful push, he burst into the restroom and scurried over to the mirror. Sure enough, he was met with the face of his former self: brown hair, tied back in a ponytail… straight teeth, guarded by a timid frown… nervous eyes, hiding behind round, colorless glasses…

"_The new Grell Sutcliff."_

No, no, this was the _old_ Grell Sutcliff—not the _new _one. It was a façade, an act, a lie… and yet, the man in the mirror stared back at him as a reality.

"How?" he wondered with a soft, fearful voice. "I didn't do this. I didn't want this." He reached back and untied the ribbon in his hair, allowing the long, brown locks to fall into place. "It's not a problem, right? I'll just fix it like I did the other night."

He closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to envision brilliant, red hues as he did so, but his heart was heavy and his mind was troubled. When he opened his eyes again, his hair was still the same shade of ordinary, everyday brown.

"What?" he muttered, confused by his reflection. "That should've worked. Hmm. Maybe I can fix the teeth." He tried to picture razor-sharp points in his mind, but when he smiled in front of the mirror, his teeth remained straight.

The haunting image sent a surge of panic through his body. "The glasses!" he exclaimed in a last-ditch effort to correct his appearance. "Surely I can fix the glasses!" He removed his large, round spectacles and attempted to imagine rectangular red frames and a neck chain adorned with skulls, but when he pushed the glasses back onto his nose, the mirror revealed that nothing had changed.

He was stuck that way, it seemed.

"Something's wrong," Grell nervously stated, his body beginning to tremble. "Something's wrong… Something's _wrong_!"

His knees grew weak beneath him, and he slowly lowered himself to the floor. He sat there in a state of shock, rocking back and forth as panicked thoughts rushed through his brain. "It's _me_, isn't it?" he mumbled to himself, his voice wavering with fright. _"I'm _wrong. I was always a poor excuse for a man, a poor excuse for a butler, a poor excuse for a Shinigami…"

He hung his head in shame. "'I am a tainted wether of the flock,'" he spoke, softly quoting from Shakespeare. "'Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit…'" He feebly raised himself and looked into the mirror one last time. "'…drops earliest to the ground.'"

Seeing his self in mocking reflection, he heaved a heavy sigh. "Well," he began, taking the ribbon from his pocket and tying his hair back again. "I guess this is goodbye." He feigned a smile and turned away, exiting the restroom with only one goal in mind.

Back in his cubicle, Grell looked to the Death Scythe that leaned passively against the wall. He picked it up and it began to whir, threatening to do what no Earthly object could ever accomplish. For a moment, he mindlessly watched the spinning blades, and then he took a brief, wistful glance at his desk. The stack of papers sat so neatly there, the top page covered with detailed writing, nearly complete.

"_Keep up the good work."_

Was it really good? William seemed to think so—_William,_ that uptight browbeater who always scolded him, kicked him, and criticized him. Perhaps this Grell was not so useless after all.

The whirring stopped.

Grell put the scythe down and returned to his desk. With a huff of determination, he picked up the pen and toiled away until every last bit of work was done. He then took the pile of finished paperwork and hugged it close to his chest as he shuffled into William's office. Grell's presence was so small that William failed to notice him, so the quiet Shinigami spoke up: "Um… Will?"

The supervisor looked up from the document that he was reading. "Sutcliff," he said, almost with a tone of surprise. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I just thought you might like to have this," Grell muttered as he stepped forward and laid the stack of papers on William's desk. "It's all the paperwork that I forgot to do last week, plus the reports for my recent assignments."

William grabbed the papers and thumbed through each document. Every page was adequately filled out, and all of the old, missing reports were accounted for. "Impressive," he remarked, turning his attention back to Grell, "though I regret to inform you that you still have not put in all of your scheduled hours for today. Perhaps—" —he glanced at the clock— "—you can help me with my second set of rounds."

Grell shyly nodded.

* * *

><p>Ronald Knox really could not help himself. When he set his sights on a woman, he was determined to win her, and yesterday's cooperative assignment had done nothing but strengthen his desire. Angelina Durless was fierce, sexy, and, above all, a challenge. He had to have her.<p>

He could see her from his desk. Sure, she was on the opposite side of the room, but the view was perfect and he could see the contour of her profile. Such luscious, red lips. As he eyed her desirously, he ran his tongue across his own, longing lips…

…and then he felt a thump on his head, accompanied by a reprimanding tone: "Get back to work, Ronald Knox."

The young Shinigami was met with two faces: the frustrated scowl of William T. Spears and the bashful frown of another, unfamiliar man.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Ronald responded with a chuckle. "I just got a little…" His eyes wandered back to the woman across the room. "…distracted."

"Honestly, I am appalled at the amount of babysitting that my job requires," William sighed.

The other man remained quiet, but, out of curiosity, he followed Ronald's line of vision, hoping to discover what was so distracting. The path led his eyes directly to the woman known as Madam Red…

Grell Sutcliff felt his stomach lurch. Ronald was staring at _her_. Suddenly, anger flared up inside him and he slapped his hands on Ronald's desk. "Keep your eyes on your paperwork, Knox!" he shouted, his voice cracking with utter disgust.

Startled, Ronald lifted his eyes to the man beside him. Courses of red streamed through the Shinigami's hair and pointed teeth grated furiously back and forth.

"Oh, it's you," Ronald nervously laughed. "I hardly recognized you like that, Mr. Sutcliff."

Several other workers looked up and began to murmur amongst themselves.

"Come, Sutcliff," William said, tugging Grell away from the desk. "There's no need to disrupt the workplace yet again. You've done enough of that lately."

"But Will—"

"You dare to protest, after I already warned you against causing trouble? Come, now—we will talk in my office." With that, he literally dragged the redhead out of the room and down the hallway, where he tossed him into his personal office and closed the door behind them.

"Tell me, Sutcliff," William sternly began, "what is the matter? I was nearly convinced that you had cleaned up your character, but it seems that it was merely a fluke, and a very fleeting one at that."

"What's the big deal?" Grell whined. "I didn't _do_ anything just now."

"No, you did not," William calmly agreed, "but I think we both know that your actions would have escalated into something much more dramatic if you had stayed there."

Grell turned his back to the supervisor and folded his arms across his chest, letting out an irritated "hmph."

"I do you a kindness, and you turn your back to me? How very unlike you," William said, raising an eyebrow.

"It probably wasn't for me at all," Grell scoffed. "I'm sure it was just 'for the good of the bureaucracy,' right, Will?_"_

William cleared his throat. "Regardless, you need to be more careful, Sutcliff. You should not make such a spectacle of yourself."

With a sudden, theatrical turn, Grell faced William and tossed his hands into the air, letting out a frantic cry: "I can't _take_ this anymore, Will! Nothing makes sense!"

"I agree," William muttered. "I have worked with you for over a century, and I have yet to make any sense out of it."

"Oh, very _funny, _Will," Grell hissed. "Just get me out of here—_now._ Give me a field assignment!"

The head of the department raised his eyebrow again. "You're asking for work?"

"Yes!" Grell fervently insisted.

William placed a hand on his forehead and rubbed a light pressure onto his temple. "You're just _full _of surprises today, aren't you?"

Grell wiggled up to the supervisor and desperately pleaded, _"_I need to get out of here! I need to use my Death Scythe! I need to see someone _die!"_

William adjusted his tie, feeling a bit uncomfortable with that last statement—Grell seemed a little too excited about the prospect of death—but, London _was_ pressed for time and numbers, and Grell _did _manage to complete an entire stack of paperwork… "Alright. Just make sure that you follow the rules and stay calm. Emotion has no place in the field."

"I _know_ that," Grell dismissed. "Now give me my assignment!"

William walked over to his desk, picked up a stack of files, and handed the entire load to Grell. "Here. This should keep you busy all night."

"Oh, thank you_,_ Will!" Grell exclaimed. "Now I won't have to _think!"_

"On the contrary, work requires much thought, Sutcli—"

But he was already gone.

Meanwhile, in the office, Ronald Knox assumed that his superiors were busy and took the opportunity to wander over to Angelina. He leaned casually against her desk and commented, "It's been a rough couple of days, hasn't it?"

"Yes," the woman indifferently answered, not even bothering to look up from her paperwork.

Just then, Grell whizzed by with his mass of papers, hurrying to get out of the London Branch. Ronald laughed at the sight, saying, "It looks like Mr. Sutcliff received overtime as a punishment."

"Good," Madam Red callously remarked. "He deserves it."

"But…" Ronald's eyes flashed with a wily twinkle. _"…we_ don't have overtime today. Let me take you out for a drink this evening, Angelina."

Madam Red raised her eyes. The sly Shinigami before her wore the most seductive look on his face—it was almost comical. "Are you serious?" she wondered with a little laugh.

Ronald gave her a lecherous smile. "Oh, yes. I insist."

"How very kind of you," she said with sarcasm, "but I'm afraid that I must decline."

"Really now?" Ronald grinned. "That's too bad. I know of a place where we can get the most fantastic red wine. Red is your favorite, yes?"

"Naturally," Madam Red replied with a smirk, "but that doesn't mean that I'll go out with you."

Ronald reached forward to move a strand of hair behind the woman's ear, then leaned in and whispered, "You'll change your mind eventually."

"That's a horribly brash thing to say," Madam Red chuckled.

"It's not brash if it's true," Ronald cajoled her, softly touching her cheek. "You'll see."

"Well, until then—" —the female Shinigami's lips cracked into an amused grin— "—keep your eyes on your paperwork, Knox."

Ronald pulled back and smiled. "I can't do the impossible, ma'am," he said with a wink.

…and then the orange-haired Shinigami felt another thump on his head: "How many times do I have to tell you to get back to work?"

"Yes, Mr. Spears!"


	9. Interlude: Butler Death

**Interlude: The Tragedy of Butler Death, within a Sea of Red**

Damn it.

Damn it _all._

What the hell was _wrong _with me? All of this worrying and questioning and changing—it was like I couldn't even function anymore. I didn't know who I was, or how to act, or what to say… just because of some _woman? _Hell, I couldn't even remember the last time I had this many problems. Before _she _came to London, I lived a carefree life of reaping and flirting and chasing… Each day was just another heart-pounding adventure for the fabulous Grell Sutcliff! But now…

Now that wretched woman consumed my every thought, and I was tired of it. I didn't want to think about her anymore; I didn't want to think _at all. _I just wanted to take my Death Scythe and cut away all of these damn problems! If I could just see the one thing that I treasured most—gorgeous, garnet blood—then maybe I could lose myself in the carnage!

I picked up my chainsaw and held it out in front of me. Oh, how _wonderful_ it was, watching the bloodlust reflected in the teeth of my elegant scythe, hearing the engine whisper promises of _death _into my ear. Tonight would be a show stained with red, would it not? So many papers in my hand—each one a life soon to be taken by my hand… Surely it was the mark of a scarlet bloodbath! How else could there be such a huge number of souls on the Death List?

…Wait.

What?

Curse that deceitful William! It wasn't a bloodbath at all! Thumbing through the files, I noticed that most of the deaths were ordinary—nothing but a bunch of injuries, accidents, and illnesses. How dreadfully dull! Was there nothing in this whole stack of papers that was worthy of my brilliant style? I needed something exciting, something dramatic, something _violent…_

Aha!

_This _could be fun.

At 6:43 P.M., Luther Stonewell, age 26, and his wife, Emma, age 22, were scheduled to die in a scene of murder and suicide.

Oh, yes, that was positively thrilling! Passion, blood, and death! A beautiful tragedy—a work of _art!_ My body shivered with the thought!

At first, I tried to be patient. I went about town and collected a few souls, but the deaths were so tedious that I grew terribly bored. How could I work, knowing that a stunning performance awaited me?

…And so I decided to head straight for the main event. Who would care if a couple of souls had to wait?

With that oh-so-quick Shinigami speed, I danced to the outskirts of London, where there sat a quaint little house. I perched near the kitchen window and grinned to myself as I peered inside, my mouth watering with excitement for the scene. At last, the time was nigh!

Oh ho! Wasn't _he _a handsome fellow? Luther Stonewell was a tall young man with a thin build, but a strong jaw line. His hair was dark brown and hung in curls, and his eyes… So deep and blue! Ahhh…

I leaned forward and licked my lips. What a shame it was that this handsome man had to die!

…And what a shame it was that his wife had to be so bland. She wore a simple white dress with no ruffles or intricate patterns, and her face was equally plain, with no make-up on her pale, milky skin or soft, petal lips. She had a very natural look, and she was pretty in a way, but she was far too dull for my tastes.

For the first several minutes, the house was disturbingly quiet. I could sense trouble brewing. My skin prickled with anticipation and my eyes remained glued to the scene. Soon enough, the couple began to yell.

Well, well, well… a lover's spat! That was the perfect device to get my attention; I did love drama, after all. Hmm… What were they arguing about? I couldn't quite make out the words, but the man sounded hurt. Quite intriguing…

Were those tears in his eyes? Oh, but his wife's eyes were wet as well! Mmmm… How moving! Their eyes glittered like jewels! Crystal teardrops rained down each of their cheeks as their voices continued to rise, their bodies drew nearer, and their hands lashed out in growing tension, so impassioned, so aroused—it was almost sexual!

Goodness, Grell, there was no reason to get _too _excited…

But there it was! In the heat of the moment, the young woman snatched a knife from the kitchen counter and thrust it into her husband's heart!

The yelling stopped.

The man's mouth hung agape, and one crystal gaze locked onto the other just before his legs buckled beneath him. Young Emma Stonewell gasped and reached forward to catch him in her arms, speechless as she held him there, utterly stunned by her own behavior. The body in her arms shook a bit, shocked and pained, but the moment was short-lived as the glimmer in his eyes became faint.

Death.

Beautiful red flowed from his heart and onto her dress, staining the pure, white fabric with the blessed color of murder. With a mournful cry, the woman fell to her knees, pulled the dying man close to her bosom, and laid her head against him. Blood continued to drip and spill, painting its deathly red onto the once-pure canvas. It was strikingly gorgeous…

I couldn't help myself.

I entered the house, invisible at first, and stuck my chainsaw into the man's body and took his soul.

Meanwhile, the woman grabbed the knife and raised it to her throat. She pressed it lightly to her pale skin and let out woeful sob. Her hand quivered with fear and doubt, the blade lingering upon her pretty throat.

I appeared to her, clapping my hands together in a slow, soft applause. "Bravo, miss. What a marvelous show you put on this evening. Truly moving." I pretended to wipe a tear, then leaned forward and met her eyes. "But it must hurt," I teased, "having killed your own lover like that. Now he'll never come back to you. How will you live with yourself?"

She gaped at me, her eyes wide with terror and her body shivering with fear. "W-Who are y-you?" she stuttered.

I flashed my sharp teeth at her in a wide grin. "Why, I'm none other than Butler Death, my dear."

I glanced up at the clock. In less than a minute, she was due to die. I bent over, leaned in, and whispered into her ear: "What is life without love? You just killed the purest thing in your life. But don't worry. I'll send you to him." Before she even had the chance to reply, I slipped behind her and placed my hand over hers, aiding her in sliding the knife across her throat. Smiling to myself, I looked up at the clock again—right on time. I didn't earn a triple-A in Practical Technique at the Academy for nothing: Grell Sutcliff, the reaper with unmatched precision!

When the Cinematic Record appeared, I collected it with my Death Scythe and pulled my chainsaw away from the dead body. Tragedy certainly was beautiful in its own, sad way. Splendorous red flowed from both of the bodies—the blood of lovers spilled onto the floor. They were united again, in love and in death.

I dipped my hand into the pool of blood and ran my fingertips across the woman's lips. That was much better! Her lips shown like rubies now. I smiled and stepped back to admire my work.

Oh, how good it felt… Crimson liquid dripped from my Death Scythe, and I couldn't help but wear a toothy grin. It had been so long since I'd seen so much blood. It covered the bodies, the walls, and the floor, spattered everywhere in a shameful—and at the same time elegant—pattern.

Such breathtaking _red! _It was positively wonderful!

And yet… something was oddly familiar about it. My stomach lurched with uneasiness. Why didn't this feel right? I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Something was missing…

"What is it?" I mumbled to myself.

I studied the blood patterns on the wall, but the answer didn't come to me.

How annoying! I refused to leave until I figured it out!

The hours ticked away as I looked all around the room, pacing restlessly back and forth, trying to stir up an old memory. I thought and thought until my brain hurt, until the sun set, until—

My body suddenly froze.

The profuse amount of blood… the look of loss and regret in the woman's eyes as her lover fell into her arms…

My Madam Red.

It didn't feel right, being here alone. Where was my partner? Where was my beautiful Madam Red, splattered with blood? Where was the woman with the insane look in her eyes and the misunderstood darkness in her heart? Where was she, that woman whom I loved? My scarlet lady… Fierce and lovely Anne…

Like the woman here tonight, had I not once killed the person whom I loved? Had I not felt a twinge of regret when I looked down at the dead body? I ended it all in a bloodbath just the same, closing the curtain on our violent show without a second thought…

Maybe I kept going, and maybe I got distracted by other pursuits, but… I never _forgot _her. On the contrary, I vividly remembered her and the relationship that we had together. Maybe that was why I wore the coat for so many years, or why I never made alterations…

Looking at the blood-covered scene, there was a pain in my chest… a longing… an emptiness. My legs weakened and I dropped to the ground. I could feel tears coming to my eyes, and I… For the first time, after all of these years, I began to grieve for the love that I myself took away.


	10. Cinematic Record: Grell Sutcliff

Happy New Year, Fit to Wear Red fans! To usher in the new year, I'm providing an update! To those of you who have browsed my other works, the following piece may look familiar to you. That's because this scene has been available on the site for over a year. It was the very first scene that I wrote for Fit to Wear Red, intended to be a flashback, but, after I read it a few times, I realized that it also worked well as a stand-alone one-shot. Thus, on July 22, 2011, I published this scene as a one-shot under the title The Color that I Loved the Most, devoid of any Fit to Wear Red context.

Now, over a year later, the scene has finally reached its intended place in the story: Grell's memory drawn up from the events of the previous Interlude.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Shinigami File #015726503: Cinematic Record of Grell Sutcliff<strong>

_Poor, ugly thing._

_She never even stood a chance._

_But the least I could do was decorate her with pretty red, so that she wouldn't look so pathetically bland when she died. I did love red, after all. I always found it to be great for hair, clothes, and make-up, and although I was never attracted to women, I did discover that a pop of red could turn even the most boring woman into a breathtaking flower._

_Her lips were so pale; I had to give them some color. Lifting a cup to her arm, I cut deep into the flesh, letting the warm liquid spill into it. Once it had thickened a bit, I applied the lipstick to her mouth. Her blood-shot eyes, so red from fright and tears, clashed against her porcelain skin, so I raised another cup to her chest. Stabbing her once again, a bold eyeliner poured forth, and I applied it generously. Finally, I dragged my blade against her throat, and painted her cheeks with a nice blush._

_So vivid! So feminine! Ah, yes, red was the color that I loved the most!_

"_She's ready, Madam," I announced. I couldn't help but smile as I said it, because I knew that the scene would soon be bursting with red. I turned the body over to my dear accomplice, so that she could do her work._

_And, oh, how she __**worked!**_

_Once the body hit the ground, she lunged toward it and drove her knife into the abdomen with a long, jagged movement fueled by rage. Wildly, she proceeded to slash though the insides._

_I stood beside her and watched with amazement as she mutilated the woman, using her dexterous hands to remove the uterus. It was marvelously violent and bloody, and oh so dramatic―just how a death __**should**__ be!_

_Ah, the tragic victim! The misunderstood criminals! The twisted, personal justice! The night was our stage, and we were the actresses, ending the show with our own, blood-red curtain…_

_It was a __**beautiful**__ performance!_

_When at last she was done, Madam Red stood and turned toward me, revealing a face that was splattered with blood. The random pattern―so different from my own handiwork―possessed its own sort of natural beauty. Standing there with wild eyes, panting from the fervor and drenched in blood, she was the most gorgeous thing that I had ever seen._

_**She **__was the masterpiece._

_Suddenly, I felt a sensation come over me. It was familiar, and yet unfamiliar at the same time. My entire body tingled with excitement, and I felt a sense of tightness in my suit… but __**that **__sort of arousal… for a __**woman?**__ It was simply __**unheard**__ of!_

…_Of course, my body had its own opinion. For once, it longed for a woman, and, for once, I was glad that I was born a man._

"_You did a splendid job tonight," I told her. "It was quite the entertaining show, and I must say—"_

"_There's no time for talk," she interrupted, nearly out of breath. "We mustn't linger here."_

_Hmph. She did know how to ruin a perfect moment, didn't she? But, then again, she was right. I didn't want "Jack the Ripper" to get caught; I wanted to continue this routine forever…_

_Upon our return the manor, I escorted Madam Red to her bedroom and bade her goodnight, but, as I turned to leave the room, I couldn't contain myself: "Madam, there's something I'd like to know."_

"_Yes, Grell?"_

"_What are we, exactly?"_

"_Oh, we're many things," she answered with a little chuckle. "Which term would you prefer? 'Cold-blooded murderers?' 'Master and butler?' 'Kindred spirits?'"_

"_Lovers."_

_She clearly hadn't expected that response from me, because her face, still covered in blood, grew very serious. She took a moment to study me, as if mulling the possibility in her mind, but, the next thing I knew, she leaned forward and removed my glasses. My vision was terrible, so I tried protest, but she silenced me with a kiss._

_And, goodness, how wonderfully __**bold**__ she was, undoing buttons and tossing clothes to the floor! It was steamy! It was passionate! It was... quite literally a blur… but a beautiful blur nonetheless―a blur of skin and red._

_Ah, yes, Red was the color that I loved the most._


	11. Chapter 5

_FINALLY. I have posted the latest chapter! I meant to have it up on Valentine's Day. It would've been so fitting; Valentine's Day is a holiday that is celebrated with the color red, after all! __I apologize for the delay, but I hope that this chapter will make up for the wait!_

_Please continue to submit reviews, as they are often the driving force for my updates. Feel free to even send personal messages if I haven't updated for a while-"Hey, Anncatz, get back to work! I am eagerly waiting for the next chapter!"-so that I am reminded of your love and passion for the story. Now, ENJOY!_

_~Anncatz_

_P.S. I am currently addicted to the song "Program Me" by Jun Fukuyama, Grell's Japanese voice actor. It was advertised on Tumblr as a sort of theme for Grell, because the translated lyrics sound like something that a modern Grell would sing. Someone even made some fake album art, as if it were one of Grell's character songs. I reblogged it on my own Tumblr blog if you want to listen to the song and see the album cover. Go to gorgeousgarnet . tumblr and scroll down a bit, and you'll find it! IT'S ADDICTIVE._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

The office was quiet as William T. Spears toiled with his work. Sometimes it seemed that his job was never done—there were so many additional duties that burdened him as the supervisor of staffing—but, nevertheless, there was something soothing about the systematic nature of paperwork. Writing, filing, stacking, shuffling… Everything was organized into its proper place, just the way it should be. Orderliness was, after all, a staple of the Shinigami existence…

…although none of the other employees seemed to understand that.

He glanced at the clock. It had become dark outside, and Grell Sutcliff should have returned by now. After the miraculous glimmer of productivity earlier that day, William had hoped that maybe—just this once—the man could manage to do his job correctly, but, of course, it was probably too much to ask of the most careless, disrespectful Shingami in London.

With a sigh, William thumbed through the papers on his desk and pulled up the Death List. The all-knowing document revealed that the first few souls on the list had been successfully reaped, but, following the deaths of Luther and Emma Stonewell, there appeared to be some sort of complication. There was no indication that any subsequent souls had been judged or collected. Clearly, Sutcliff had failed yet again.

"Honestly," William muttered to himself as he gazed at the unfinished paperwork on his desk. "For Sutcliff to work as a Shinigami for over one hundred years and still be unable to complete the most basic task…" He stood from his desk and grabbed his Death Scythe, clenching his fist tightly around the thin rod. "…and to force me to mobilize, when field work is not my responsibility… It is an utter disgrace. By the time I gather the missing souls, find Sutcliff, and ensure that the reports are properly written…"

William's bitter eyes turned to the clock again, its ticking time-needles digging into his skin. Overtime was inevitable. This most dreadful occurrence was all too common for the supervisor, but William nevertheless set forth to resolve the issue at hand. It was his duty, after all, to execute his tasks without question or error, and unlike a certain, tactless colleague, William T. Spears was one who revered his work.

William looked at the Death List. The first missed soul belonged to immigrant Karl Heideburg, who died of a sudden heart attack at 7:12 P.M., in the alley behind his shoemaker's shop. William hopped along the London rooftops, scanning the scene for any sign of transgression. At first, nothing seemed suspicious or out of place, but then a horrid stench graced his nostrils. He immediately stopped and shut his eyes as he pressed his fingers against his forehead. "Demon," he grumbled under his breath. "This is what I get for thinking that Sutcliff was actually dependable."

He opened his eyes again and peered into the dark alleyway. A shadowy figure shifted among the darkness and two glinting, red orbs fixated hungrily on the lifeless human body. William sighed to himself, muttering, "The Board will not be happy about this," and, without hesitation, he produced his Death Scythe and extended it to the street below, piercing the unsuspecting demon in the chest. The creature died instantly.

William jumped down and moved the demon corpse with his foot, wearing a disgusted grimace as he did so. "Filthy scum." He then glanced over at the deceased man and sensed that his soul was still present. "At least the vermin did not consume the soul, but I wonder if the other names on the Death List have acquired similar misfortunes." He sighed at that thought, then pricked the body with his Death Scythe, judged the Cinematic Record, and took to the rooftops again.

The neglected souls were naught but sitting ducks for the lowlife bottom-feeders among demon kind. As William journeyed across London, each collection entailed a quick battle against the shadowy pests, and every time, William feared that the souls had been damaged or lost, but, with great care and speed, he was able to collect each and every one, secure and intact.

At long last, after such needless worry and toil, William checked off the last name on the Death List. The only remaining task was to locate Sutcliff and return the wretch to the workplace. It seemed logical that he should check the site of the last souls that Sutcliff successfully reaped—Luther and Emma Stonewell—so William proceeded to the location. In a characteristically candid manner, he opened the front door and let himself in, making no effort to hide himself. The house was still and quiet, save for the soft sound of sobbing that came from the kitchen.

William entered the room with caution, but he did not need to survey it; the scene made itself strikingly clear. The Stonewells' bodies lay sprawled across the floor, red spatter stained the walls, and Sutcliff sat in a pool of blood, his legs drawn close to his chest, his head resting on his knees. The reaper's shoulders shook as he quietly cried to himself. Surprisingly, his hair did not match the sanguine pool around him; rather, it fell about his shoulders in a dull shade of brown. The pathetic thing seemed horribly out of touch with the scene around him, drawn into his own world.

"Grell Sutcliff."

Grell lifted his head. "Will?" his voice cracked. "Is that you?"

William opened up his black handbook and began to read from it: "In failing to reap your designated souls, you have violated the most basic Shinigami law. This is a punishable offense—"

Before the supervisor could finish his recitation, however, he was greeted with a sudden hug as Grell threw his arms about him and buried his face into his shoulder. "Will…"

William stumbled backward as he caught the unexpected gesture. The handbook was knocked from his grasp and fell to the blood-spattered floor. He glanced over at it as the deep, red liquid soaked into its neat, white pages. He sighed.

Grell let out a soft whimper and tightened his grip around the supervisor's waist. He repeated with a soft, melancholy tone, "Will…"

That voice. Something in it was different. By now, William was accustomed to the squeaky cries of "Will! You came to save me, didn't you?", followed by an attempted pounce that William would carefully dodge. But this… This was something else entirely.

Grell clung to William with a tight, desperate grip. He buried his face into the taller reaper's shoulder, pouring tears onto the stark, black suit coat. "I'm so glad you're here…"

William hardly knew what to think. His posture became even more rigid than usual and his arms fell awkwardly at his side. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"I don't know what to do, Will…"

Ah, now _that_ was something to which the supervisor could respond. He cleared his throat and found his voice again: "You should clean yourself up and get back to work like any self-respecting reaper… though I have a feeling that you have no intention of doing so."

"I made a mistake, Will," Grell sobbed, "and I can't take it back…"

"I cannot say that I disagree with you. You carelessly left those souls unattended—"

"No," Grell interrupted. "That's not what I'm talking about."

"Of course not," William grumbled. "I should have known that you would not care about such things. To which mistake are you referring?"

"I killed Madam Red."

"Yes, I am well aware of that," William responded, raising an eyebrow in question. "I have not forgotten the many hours of fieldwork that I was forced to do because of your thoughtless antics, though why you choose to mention the issue now is quite baffling."

The arms locked tighter around William's waist and Grell's shoulders began to tremble. "I saw the blood, and the memories came flooding back to me… Like a red river whose dam had broken, my own past consumed me…"

"Now is not the time for theatrics, Sutcliff."

Consumed by his own thoughts, Grell continued, "The vision of blood washed over me, and I realized that, after all these years, I've been alone and incomplete, and I brought it upon myself…"

"Indeed. You would not have such problems if you did not give into youroutlandish whims."

"It hurts!" came the sudden, desperate cry. "It hurts, Will! My partner, my love, my dear, Red Queen… Oh, how I did love her so! But I _killed _her! I tried to justify it by saying she was weak, but _I'm _the weak one!"

"This is precisely the reason why I tell you time and again that you are not to bring any emotions to the field," William sighed. "Do try to calm down, Sutcliff. Emotions are a waste of time."

Finally, the man raised his head, looking up to meet William's gaze. Grell's eyes were soaked with tears, puffed and red from hours of crying. The look in the viridian orbs was deeply pained, staring up at William with an intense, uncomfortable amount of feeling. William turned his own eyes away, unable to hold contact with the emotion-filled gaze. "Sutcliff."

"Yes, Will?"

"I want you to go home for the evening," William instructed. "I will write the reports."

The puffy eyes softened at these words. "You're willing to do that for me?"

"Yes."

"So…" The smallest hint of a smile played at Grell's lips. "You _do _care."

"I care about finishing the work in the most efficient manner," the supervisor clarified. "Since you are incapable of handling the task, it is my duty to rectify the situation."

"Thank you, Will…"

"Come now, Sutcliff," William said, lightly pushing the man away from him. "I shall accompany you to your quarters."

Grell's eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and appreciation. "You… You will?"

"I do not trust you to roam the streets by yourself," William clarified. "You are not stable._"_

"I'm sorry, Will…"

"You may file a formal letter of apology later," the supervisor stated as he tugged Grell forward. "For now, we must go."

* * *

><p>Hours later, the paperwork was still not finished. Between documenting the basic information and writing formal apologies for each missed soul, the sea of work seemed infinite before him, but he had to do it. Sutcliff was disturbed, to say the least.<p>

William had not put much thought into the Shinigami's behavior concerning Angelina Durless; the superior was quick to diagnose the issue as Sutcliff's reluctance to face his cold-blooded murder. After the events of this evening, however, William felt a twinge of doubt in his own judgment. Clearly, Sutcliff was even more unstable than usual.

William set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. Something about Sutcliff's behavior perturbed him. It was strange enough to see the man forego his usually-flamboyant personality and appearance in favor of something more subdued, but it was worse to hear him cry out in pain and to feel his desperate grip clinging tightly for comfort.

Much to the supervisor's annoyance, Sutcliff was never a stranger to physical advances, but this was a different matter entirely. It was a fit of raw emotion. Agony… Grief… Regret…

And did he not mention love?

Certainly, William was aware of Sutcliff's divergence from the Shinigami Dispatch Society in the year 1888, when he completely disappeared in order to commit unspeakably violent crimes alongside Angelina Durless, but William had assumed that it was merely a means for Sutcliff to feed his theatrical cravings. The idea that Sutcliff and Miss Durless were more than partners was practically absurd; in all of William's years of knowing the Shinigami, Sutcliff had never taken interest in a woman. Even after the "Jack the Ripper" incident, Sutcliff never again mentioned Angelina Durless, and he quickly resumed his flirtatious tendencies.

But… It was becoming increasingly clear that William knew very little about Sutcliff's experience as "Jack the Ripper." William realized that he never truly knew the nature of Sutcliff's relationship with Miss Durless. Was there more to the bond than murder? Was it romantic, committed, and defined? Was it sexual? Were the feelings even mutual, or was Sutcliff simply being overdramatic when he said that he loved her?

William sighed and took off his glasses, then massaged his temples and rubbed his eyes. It was all too much to think about. Emotion was such a trivial thing; no wonder he discarded it long ago.

And why was Sutcliff on his mind anyway? The troublesome wretch was the cause of all of his stress, and the sole reason why he was still in the office tonight, working undue overtime.

…Or was it his own fault?

Perhaps he should have foreseen that the events would unfold this way. Sutcliff did act frantic in the week leading up to Angelina Durless's transfer, and he did act strangely afterward by altering his self… It was a predictable outcome, really.

All of these thoughts… They were far too distracting. William could hardly work, and the room was feeling increasingly stuffy and restrictive. He slipped off his coat and loosened his tie, and then he attempted to turn his attention back to the paper in front of him, but he simply could not focus. He needed air.

With a sigh, he slipped off his gloves, laid them on his desk, and stood from his seat. He raised his hands and ran them through his black hair, ruffling the neatly-combed part. The Shinigami now had a certain, disheveled look about him.

He stepped outside. The night sky was beautifully clear, with its diamond stars twinkling brightly above him. The pattern seemed random, but, no, each white, sparkling gem was exactly where it was supposed to be. The stars had a precise order to them that never faltered. He wished that he could reach up into the sky and take a piece of that divine order for himself. The world seemed to be falling apart around him.

Perhaps he could empathize. If _his _world was beginning to crumble, then Sutcliff's world was already in utter shambles. No wonder the man felt so desperate and lost. It was understandable to feel such a way, was it not? Without order, emotion could easily slip through the cracks.

If only… If only he could put everything back in its place. Emotions distracted the mind from objective views and clouded the Shinigami's vision even more than their blurry eyes. William was certain that there was no place for emotion.

How detestable it was that some sort of feelings were bubbling up inside of him.

* * *

><p><em>THE PLOT THICKENS. Or, rather, the DRAMA thickens! A few chapters ago, one reviewer stated, "God, I don't know what I'm shipping anymore." That's the point, my friends! Ship all the pairings! Take bets as to which couples will be together in the end! That's what drama is all about!<em>

_See you in the next update~_


	12. Author's Note: Stop Fanfiction Theft!

To the loyal fans of _Fit to Wear Red,_ both old and new:

I know that I have let you down over the past year. I know that many of you were avid readers, eagerly waiting for a new chapter to appear. I know that, now, you must feel as though this story was forgotten and abandoned. And for that, I deeply apologize.

I could sit here and type excuses as to why I didn't update for so long-a combination of writer's block and focusing on my real-life career-but that is not what this post is about. This post is about rallying my readers and fans together in raising awareness about a problem: fanfiction theft.

On the afternoon of September 26, 2014, I discovered that the contents of _Fit to Wear Red_ were stolen by a user on the website Wattpad. The plagiarized version, published on Wattpad under the title _A Woman Fit to Wear Red,_ was identical to my story here, with a few changes: the first and second chapters were switched in order, all author's notes were removed, and a new summary was written by the user. Aside from these changes, the content was clearly copied and pasted directly from my work.

While I realize that the Internet is a public domain and that I do not have any legal rights to a piece of fanfiction, I believe that a certain code of conduct should be upheld within the fanfiction community. It is discourteous to take another person's work and claim it for oneself, without giving any credit to the original author. Accordingly, I submitted a report and contacted the user, cordially requesting that the story be discontinued and removed from Wattpad. As of the evening of September 26, 2014, the story appeared to have been taken down from the site.

Veiled beneath this disgraceful act, I realize that it was a compliment to my work-that it is worthy of being stolen-and in light of this discovery, I intend to resume my work and post a new chapter within the next few months, before the end of 2014. Consider it a promise.

Thank you for reading and supporting the original version of _Fit to Wear Red, _and be sure to keep an eye out for fanfiction plagiarizers.

~Anncatz


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